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Title: The Tickencote Treasure
Author: Le Queux, William
Language: English
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THE TICKENCOTE TREASURE
[Illustration: “‘I believe I could take the old tub from the Gib. to
Naples without a compass.’” (Chapter 1.)
_The Tickencote Treasure_] [_Frontispiece_]
THE TICKENCOTE
TREASURE
BY
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
_Author of “A Secret Service,” “The Temptress,”_
_“In White Raiment,” etc._
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO
1913
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I IN WHICH JOB SEAL BORROWS A FUSEE 7
II WHAT WE SAW AND WHAT WE HEARD 16
III THE MYSTERIOUS MAN 24
IV IN WHICH I EXAMINE THE PARCHMENTS 32
V WITH A STORY TO TELL 39
VI AN EXPERT OPINION 46
VII WHAT WAS WRITTEN IN THE VELLUM BOOK 56
VIII THE SEVEN DEAD MEN 65
IX ONE POINT IS MADE CLEAR 71
X THE GUARDIAN OF THE SECRET 79
XI FORESTALLED 88
XII JOB SEAL MAKES A PROPOSAL 96
XIII A CALL, AND ITS CONSEQUENCE 105
XIV REQUIRES EXPLANATION 114
XV REVEALS SOMETHING OF IMPORTANCE 122
XVI MRS. GRAHAM’S VISITOR 132
XVII THE SELLER OF THE SECRET 139
XVIII THE SILENT MAN’S WARNING 147
XIX THE LADY FROM BAYSWATER 154
XX PHILIP REILLY TELLS A STRANGE STORY 161
XXI WE MAKE A DISCOVERY IN THE MANOR HOUSE 171
XXII BLACK BENNETT 180
XXIII JOB SEAL RELATES HIS ADVENTURES 188
XXIV THE MYSTERY OF MARGARET KNUTTON 195
XXV REVEALS THE DEATH-TRAP 204
XXVI IN WHICH BEN KNUTTON GROWS CONFIDENTIAL 211
XXVII DOROTHY DRUMMOND PREFERS SECRECY 220
XXVIII WE RECEIVE MIDNIGHT VISITORS 228
XXIX DOROTHY MAKES A CONFESSION 237
XXX THE SILENT MAN’S STORY 245
XXXI THE HOUSE AT KILBURN 253
XXXII WHAT WE DISCOVERED AT THE RECORD OFFICE 261
XXXIII WE DECIPHER THE PARCHMENT 270
XXXIV OUR SEARCH AT TICKENCOTE AND ITS RESULTS 278
XXXV THE SPY, AND WHAT HE TOLD US 286
XXXVI “NINE POINTS OF THE LAW” 295
XXXVII CONTAINS THE CONCLUSION 299
CHAPTER I
IN WHICH JOB SEAL BORROWS A FUSEE
IF you are fond of a mystery I believe you will ponder over this curious
narrative just as I have pondered.
Certain persons, having heard rumours of the strange adventures that
once happened to me, have asked me to write them down in detail, so that
they may be printed and given to the world in their proper sequence.
Therefore, in obedience, and in order to set at rest for ever certain
wild and unfounded reports which crept into the papers at the time, I do
so without fear or favour, seeking to conceal no single thing, but
merely to relate what I actually saw with my own eyes and heard with my
own ears.
I read somewhere the other day the sweeping statement, written probably
by one of our superior young gentlemen just down from Oxford, that
Romance is dead. This allegation, however, I make so bold as to
challenge—first, because in my own humble capacity I have actually been
the unwilling actor in one of the most remarkable romances of modern
times; and, secondly, because I believe with that sage old chronicler,
Richard of Cirencester, that the man whose soul is filled with Greek has
a heart of leather.
Fortunately I can lay claim to neither. Apart from my association with
the present chain of curious events I am but an ordinary man, whose name
is Paul Pickering, whose age is thirty-two, and whose profession at the
time the romance befell me was the very prosaic one of a doctor without
regular practice. You will therefore quickly discern that I was not
overburdened either by fame, fortune, or fashionable foibles, and
further that, as _locum tenens_ for country doctors in ill-health or on
holiday, I advertised regularly in the _Lancet_, and was glad enough to
accept the fee of three guineas weekly.
Hard work in a big practice at Stepney and Poplar had resulted in a bad
touch of influenza with its attendant debility; therefore, when one of
my patients, a sun-tanned old salt named Seal, suggested that I should
go a trip with him up the Mediterranean, I hailed the idea with delight.
Job Seal was quite a chance patient. He called one evening at the
surgery in Commercial Road East, where I was acting as _locum_ for a
doctor named Bidwell, and consulted me about his rheumatism. A big,
deep-chested, thick-set man, with grey hair, reddish uncut beard, big
hands, shaggy brows, and a furrowed face browned by sea and sun; he
spoke in a deep bass, interlarding his conversation with nautical
expressions which were, to me, mostly unintelligible. The liniment I
gave him apparently suited his ailment, for he came again and again,
until one evening he called and declared that I had effected a cure as
marvellous as that of Sequah.
“My boat, the _Thrush_, is layin’ at Fresh Wharf, and I sail on Saturday
for Cardiff, where we take in coal for Leghorn. Now, if you ain’t got
anything better to do, doctor, don’t you sign on why as steward at a bob
a day, and come with me for the round trip?” he suggested. “You told me
the other night that you’re bein’ paid off from here on Saturday. My
boat ain’t exactly a liner, you know, but I daresay you could shake down
comfortable like, and as the trip’ll take a couple o’ months, you’d see
most of the ports up to Smyrna. Besides, this is just the right time o’
year for a blow. It ’ud do you good.”
The suggestion certainly appealed to me. I had never been afloat farther
than Ramsgate by the _Marguerite_, and for years had longed to go abroad
and see those wonderful paradises of the Sunny South of which, like
other people, I had witnessed highly-coloured dissolving views.
Therefore I accepted the bluff old captain’s hospitality, signed the
ship’s papers in a back office off Leadenhall Street, and on Saturday
evening boarded as black, grimy, and forbidding a craft as ever dropped
down the Thames.
Job Seal was right. The _Thrush_ was not by any means a liner, and its
passenger accommodation was restricted. My cabin was very small, very
stuffy, and very dirty; just as might be expected of a Mediterranean
tramp steamer. As the outward cargo was invariably Cardiff steam coal
consigned to the well-known firm of Messrs. Agius, of Naples, and Malta,
there was over everything a layer of fine coal dust, while the faces of
both officers and crew seemed ingrained with black.
The first day out I confess that I did not feel over well. A light
vessel and a choppy sea are never pleasant to a landsman. Nevertheless,
I very soon got my sea legs, and then the voyage down Channel was
pleasant enough. It was the end of June, and the salt breezes were
gratifying after the stuffy back streets of Stepney. Before my advent
Job Seal was in the habit of eating alone in his cabin, because he was
an omnivorous reader, and the chatter of his officers disturbed him. He
welcomed me, however, as a companion. Max Pemberton, Conan Doyle, and
Hyne he swore by, and in one corner of his cabin he had whole stacks of
sixpenny reprints.
The first day out I rather regretted my hasty decision to sail with him,
but ere we sighted Lundy Island and Penarth I was as merry and eager to
smoke as any of the villainous-looking crew.
After four days loading in Cardiff the vessel was an inch deep in coal
dust, and as the heavy-swearing hands in the forecastle began “cleaning
up” we slowly glided out of the Bute Docks to the accompaniment of
shouting, gesticulating, and strong language. At Seal’s suggestion I had
provided myself with certain articles of food to my taste, but as the
grit of coal and the taste of tar were inseparable from the cuisine, and
the cook’s galley the most evil-smelling corner in the whole vessel, I
enjoyed eating least of all. The weather was, however, perfect, even in
the long roll of the Atlantic, and the greater part of each day I spent
with the burly skipper on his bridge, lolling in an old deck-chair
behind a screen of canvas lashed to the rail to keep off the wind. I had
quite a cosy corner to myself, and there I smoked my pipe, breathed the
salt ocean breezes, and yarned with my deep-chested friend.
“We don’t carry forty-quid salooners on this ’ere boat,” remarked Joe
Thorpe, the first mate, when I mentioned casually that the rats gnawed
my boots at night and scampered around my cabin and over my bunk. “When
a passenger comes with us he has to rough it, but he sees a sight more
than if he travelled by the P. and O. or the Orient. You’ll see a lot,
doctor, before you’re back in London.”
His words were prophetic. I did see a lot, as you will gather later on.
Craft and crew were, as I have said, as forbidding as can be well
imagined. The vessel was black, save for a dirty red band around her
funnel, old, ricketty, and much patched. On the second day out from
Cardiff Mike Flanagan, the first engineer, imparted to me the
disconcerting fact that the boilers were in such a state that he feared
to work them at any undue pressure lest we might all take an unwelcome
flight into space. Hence at night, when I lay in my bunk sleepless owing
to the dirty weather in the Bay of Biscay, the jarring of the propeller
caused my medical mind to revert to the instability of those boilers and
the probability of catastrophe. I am not a seafaring man, but I have
often since wondered in what class the _Thrush_ might have been entered
at Lloyd’s.
Day followed day, and after we sighted Finisterre the weather became
delightful again. Seal told me long yarns of his younger days in the
Pacific trade, how he had been wrecked off the Tasmanian coast, and how
on another occasion the steamer on which he sailed was burned at sea.
The dreamy hours passed lazily. We ate together, laughed together, and
at night drank big noggins of rum together. Cape St. Vincent loomed up
in the haze one brilliant evening, and afterwards the great rock of
Gibraltar; then, on entering the Mediterranean, we steered a straight
course for that long, sun-blanched town with the high lighthouse lying
at the foot of the blue Apennines, Leghorn, which port we at last
entered with shrieking siren and flying our dirty red ensign.
But it is not with foreign towns that this narrative concerns. True, I
went ashore with Seal and drank vermouth and seltzer at Nazi’s, but
during the weeks I sailed in company with the big-handed, big-hearted
skipper and his villainous-looking crew we visited many ports in search
of a cargo for London. Naples, Palermo, Smyrna, and Tunis were to me, an
untravelled man, all interesting, while Job Seal was, I discovered, a
most popular man ashore. Shipping agents welcomed him, and he drank
vermouth at their expense; Customs officers were civil, with an eye to
the glass of grog that would follow their inspection; and even British
consuls were agreeable, unbending and joking with him in their private
sanctums.
Yes, Job Seal was a typical Mediterranean skipper, a hard drinker in
port, a hard swearer at sea, and a hard task-master at any time. In bad
weather he put on his pluck with his oilskins. From the bridge he
addressed his men as though speaking to dogs, and woe betide the
unfortunate hand who did not execute an order just to his liking. He
would roar like a bull, and conclude with an interminable cascade of
imprecations until he became red in the face and breathless.
“I’ve done this round trip these nineteen years, doctor,” he explained
to me one night while we were having our grog together, “and I really
believe I could take the old tub from the Gib. to Naples without a
compass.” And then in his deep bass tones he began to yarn as sailors
will yarn, telling tales mostly of adventures ashore in foreign towns,
adventures wherein Mike Flanagan—to whom he always referred as his
“chief”—and alcoholic liquors played leading parts.
After leaving Tunis for Valencia, homeward bound, we experienced bad
weather. The wind howled in the rigging, and the sea ran mountains high,
as it often does in those parts at certain seasons of the year. One
afternoon, attired in the suit of yellow oilskins I had purchased in
Cardiff, I was seated on the bridge, notwithstanding the stiff breeze
and the heavy sea still running, for I preferred that to my stuffy,
tarry cabin with its port-hole screwed down.
Seal, in ponderous sea-boots, black oilskins, and his sou-wester tied
beneath his chin, had been chatting, laughing and pacing the deck, when
of a sudden his quick eye observed something which to my unpractised
vision was indistinguishable. He took his glass from its box, stood
astride, and took steady sight of it.
“H’m,” he grunted deeply, “that’s durned funny!” and turning to the
helmsman gave an order which caused the man to spin the wheel over, and
slowly the bows of the _Thrush_ swung round in the direction in which he
had been gazing.
“Like to look, doctor?” he asked, at the same time handing me his glass.
I stood up, but the vessel rolling about like a bottle made it difficult
for me to keep my feet, and more especially for me to focus the object.
At last, however, after some effort I saw as I swept the horizon a
curious-looking thing afloat. Indistinct in the grey haze, it looked to
me like two square-built boxes floating high from the water, but close
behind each other. I could not, however, see them well on account of the
haze.
“That’s curious!” I ejaculated. “What do you think they are, captain?”
“Haven’t any idea, doctor. We’re goin’ to inspect ’em presently.” And he
again took sight for a long time, and then replaced his glass in its box
with a puzzled air. “Queer lookin’ craft, anyhow,” he remarked. “They
don’t seem to be flying any signals of distress, either.”
“Where are we now?” I inquired, much interested in the mysterious object
in the distance.
“About midway between Fomentera and Algiers,” was his answer, and then,
impatient to overhaul the craft that had attracted his attention, he
pulled over the brass handle of the electric signals and turned it back
again, causing it to ring thrice. An instant later came the three
answering rings, and a few moments afterwards the long cloud of dense
black smoke whirling from the funnel told us that Mike Flanagan was
about to get all the work out of his boilers that he dared.
Seal roared an order in the howling wind, and a tiny, coal-grimed flag
ran up to the mast-head and fluttered in the breeze, while with eyes
glued to his glass he watched if any response were given to his signal.
But there was none.
News of something unusual had spread among the crew, and a few moments
later the first mate, Thorpe, whose watch had ended an hour before,
sprang up the ladder to the skipper’s side.
“Look, Joe!” exclaimed Seal. “What the dickens do you make out o’ that?”
Thorpe swung his body with the motion of the vessel and took a long look
at the object of mystery.
“Thunder, cap’n!” he cried. “Looks like Noah’s Ark, sir.”
By this time the smutty-faced crew, in their dirty blue trousers and
sea-boots, had emerged from the forecastle and stood gazing in the
direction of the mystery, heedless of the waves that now and then swept
the deck from stem to stern. Some of the men shaded their eyes with
horny hands, and the opinions expressed were both forcible and various.
Job Seal borrowed a fusee from me and lit his foul-smelling pipe, a
habit of his when puzzled. With his blackened clay between his teeth he
talked to Thorpe, while the spray showered in our faces and the vessel
rose and fell in the long trough of the sea.
Again and again he sighted the object which his sea-trained eyes had so
quickly detected, and each time growled in dissatisfaction.
At length, in a voice quite unusual to him, and with all the brown gone
out of his face, he said:—
“There’s something very uncanny about that blessed craft, doctor! I’ve
been afloat these thirty-three years come August, but I never saw such a
tarnation funny thing as that before! I believe it’s the _Flyin’
Dutchman_, as true as I’m here on my own bridge!”
He handed me the binocular again, and steadying myself carefully I
managed to focus it.
Sailors are nothing if not superstitious, and I could see that the
unusual sight had sent a stir of consternation through the ship.
“What do you make her out to be?” roared Seal to the look-out man.
“Never saw such a thing before, sir,” responded the man in oilskins;
“maybe she’s one o’ them secret submarine inventions of the French
what’s come to the surface”—a suggestion which pleased the crew
mightily, and was greeted with a chorus of laughter.
“Submarine be hanged!” exclaimed one old seaman whom I had heard
addressed as Dicky Dunn. “It’s old Noah a-making for Marseilles! Can’t
yer see the big square port in the stern where he lets his bloomin’
pigeons out?”
And so the suggestions went on, and while the _Thrush_ rapidly bore down
with full steam ahead, with the salt spray flying across her bows, the
mystery of our discovery increased.
CHAPTER II
WHAT WE SAW AND WHAT WE HEARD
“WELL, I’m blowed!”
The simple ejaculation was Seal’s, but the words of the sentence were
most expressive.
The strange object was now but a few cable lengths of us, and certainly
the skipper’s surprise was shared by every one of us. Even the
blackened, half-naked stokers had emerged on deck and stood gazing at it
with wide-open eyes.
Job Seal, the big, roaring man, dauntless of every thing, stood leaning
over the bridge and glaring aghast at his discovery. And well he might,
for surely no similar object sailed the sea in these modern days.
In the sea, close behind one another, rode two wooden houses,
three-storeyed, and having big square windows of thick glass. So near
were we to it that now, for the first time, I could distinguish that
there was a submerged connexion between the two objects above the
surface. Then, in a flash, the astounding truth dawned upon me. It was
an ancient ship of that curious Elizabethan build, like those I had seen
in pictures of the Spanish Armada!
From the high bows there projected a battered figure-head, shaped like
some marine monstrosity, while beyond the submerged deck rose the high
stern, from which jutted three projections, each farther over the water
than the others. At such close quarters I could see that out of the roof
of both houses stood the stumps of masts, but there was not a vestige of
cordage.
The strangest fact of all, however, was that everywhere, even over the
roof of the high bow and stern, were barnacles, sponges, and shell-fish
of all descriptions, while enormous bands of brown seaweed streamed and
flapped with the wind. A tangle of marine plants was everywhere, matted,
brown and green for the most part, and so luxurious that almost every
part of the mysterious vessel was completely covered. The shells, slime,
and seaweed certainly indicated that the strange ship had reposed at the
bottom of the sea for many a long year, and the uncanny sight caused
considerable misgivings among the forecastle hands.
The barnacles and shell-fish had not attached themselves to the windows,
hence the outline of the latter was still preserved, but over everything
else was a dense slimy tangle a foot or so thick, the higher parts
half-dried by the wind, while a quantity of seaweed floated around the
hull in long waving masses. Water-logged, she rolled and pitched
helplessly in the troubled waters, so that to me, unaccustomed to the
sea, it seemed as though she must topple over. Surely it was one of the
strangest sights that any eye had witnessed.
A derelict is always of interest alike to sailor and to landsman, but it
assuredly does not happen to many to discover a craft that has been lost
to human ken for at least three hundred years.
“She’s a beauty, she is!” laughed Seal, although I could see that his
discovery somewhat troubled him, for, like all his class, he was full of
superstition. “Wonder what her cargo is?”
“Corpses,” suggested Thorpe. “She’s only bobbed up lately, I should say,
from her lovely shroud of weeds.”
“Perhaps there may be something on board worth having,” remarked the
captain reflectively. “She’s a mystery, anyway, and we ought to solve
it.”
“Yes,” I said eagerly. “I’m ready to go on board and investigate. Lower
a boat, captain, and let’s see what’s inside.”
Seal glanced at the high sea and shook his head dubiously.
“Beg pardon, sir!” shouted the man Dicky Dunn up to the captain,
speaking between his hands. “There’s a face at one o’ them attic windows
in the stern. It only showed for a moment, and then disappeared—an
awful white face!”
“Dicky’s got another touch of his old complaint,” remarked one of the
stokers philosophically; but the statement caused all eyes to be turned
to the row of small square windows.
“Ghosts aboard!” remarked Thorpe. “If I were you, cap’n, I’d have
nothing to do with that hulking craft. She’s a floatin’ coffin, that’s
what she is.”
“You’re a white-livered coward, sonny,” roared Seal. “I’ve discovered
Noah’s Ark, and I mean to see what’s aboard her.” Then he shouted an
order for a boat to be lowered, adding in a meaning tone: “If any man’s
too chicken-hearted to board her let him stay here.”
The effect was magical. Sailors hate to be dubbed cowards, and every man
was in an instant eager to face the tempestuous sea and explore.
“Dunn!” cried the skipper. “Are you certain you saw a face, or is it
your groggy imagination?”
“I saw a face quite distinct, sir. It was grinning at us like, and then
vanished. I’ll bet my month’s pay that there’s somebody aboard—or else
it’s spirits.”
“Alcohol, more like,” grunted Seal, beneath his breath, as he turned to
the helmsman and ordered him to keep a circular course round the
water-logged hulk. The propeller had stopped, and we were now rising and
falling in the long sweep of the green water.
“Come on, doctor,” Seal said, after he had ordered Thorpe to take
command, and added a chaffing remark about Davy Jones and his proverbial
locker; “let’s go and see for ourselves.”
So together we descended to the deck, and after several unsuccessful
efforts to enter the boat, I at last found myself being tossed
helplessly towards the high seaweed-covered walls that rolled ever and
anon at a most fearsome angle.
The excitement was intense, for the boarding of the mysterious vessel
was an extremely perilous undertaking, and it was a long time before one
of the men could obtain a foothold on the slippery weeds. At last,
however, the boat was made fast, and one by one we clambered up a patch
of barnacles on to the roof of the stern. At that height, and rolling as
we were, our position was by no means an enviable one. We sank to our
knees in the brown, slimy seaweed that covered the roof, and at Seal’s
order the men, with axes, began chopping away the growth and digging
down to the timbers in search of hatches.
At last we found them, but they seemed to have been hermetically closed,
and it was a long time before saw and hatchet made any impression on the
teak. Still the six of us worked with a will, and in half an hour we
succeeded in breaking our way into the vessel.
As we peered down into the gloom of the interior there arose a dank
odour of mustiness, and I noticed that even the fearless Seal himself
hesitated to descend and explore. When, however, I announced an
intention of making the attempt, the others with one accord quickly
volunteered to accompany me.
Through the hole I lowered myself, expecting to discover some stairway,
but my legs only swung in air with the rolling of the hulk. My head
being below the roof, however, I soon discovered in the dim light that
the place was a large, wide cabin with a long oaken table down the
centre. My feet were only a foot from the table, so I dropped and
shouted to the others above to follow.
The place, with its panelled walls and deep window-seats, was more like
an old-fashioned dining-room in a country house than a ship’s saloon.
The table, a big heavy one, was handsomely carved, and there were high
seats with twisted backs, covered with faded velvet, while as I moved I
stumbled over some pieces of armour—helmets, breastplates, and swords,
all red with rust. There were a few bones, too, which at a glance I saw
belonged to a human skeleton.
The place had evidently been air and water tight, for although submerged
for years the water had not entered. On the contrary, the bodies of
those confined therein had crumbled into dust.
Seal and his men, who joined me one after the other, stood aghast,
giving vent to exclamations of surprise, mingled, of course, with strong
language.
Knowing something of antiquities, I made an examination of the furniture
and armour. On the rusted sword-blades was stamped the name “Tomas,”
with the sign of the cross, by which I knew them to be the best-tempered
steel of Toledo, and the date of the armour I put at about the end of
the sixteenth century.
“Strike me if it ain’t like a bloomin’ museum, doctor!” Seal remarked,
pressing the point of a sword to the floor to try its temper.
“A most remarkable find,” I said. “As far as I can see at present it’s
an old Spanish ship, but where it’s been all these years no one can
tell.”
“It’s been down below, doctor, you can bet your boots on that,” Seal
replied. “Been a mermaid’s palace, perhaps!”
The place wherein we stood was evidently the chief saloon. The ghastly
bones on the floor interested me, as a medical man, the more so because
one of the skeletons—and there were three—was certainly that of a man,
who, when alive, must have stood over six feet high.
I gave that as my opinion, whereupon one of the horny-handed men
hazarded the remark that it was “a giant’s Sunday-going yacht.”
One of the men who had sailed in the _Seahorse_—for such we afterwards
discovered her name to be—had assuredly been a giant in stature, for I
discovered his breastplate and sword, and certainly they were the most
formidable I had ever seen. He was no doubt the commander, judging from
the inlaid gold upon the armour, which still glistened, notwithstanding
the rust.
Wooden platters, rusty knives, and leathern mugs, lay on the floor,
having evidently been swept from the table when the vessel had heeled
over and sunk, while there were the remains of high-backed chairs,
decayed and broken, sliding on the floor with each roll of the unsteady
craft.
At the farther end of the curious old cabin was a heavy oaken door, and
passing beyond it we entered a smaller cabin projecting over the stern
with three little square windows. On the panelled wall hung a helmet and
sword, together with a time-mellowed portrait of a sour-faced man with
fair pointed beard and ruffle. On the floor lay an old blunderbuss, and
at one side, fixed against the wall, was a small oak desk for writing;
while on the other, secured to the floor with huge clamps, were three
great iron-bound and iron-studded chests, securely locked and heavily
bolted.
“Treasure!” gasped Seal. “By Christopher! there may be gold ducats in
them there boxes! Let’s have ’em open. Now lads,” he cried, bustling up
the men, “’er’s your chance to go a-gold finding! Get to work, quick.”
The order to open the boxes was easier given than executed. One man
searched in vain for the keys, while the others worked away till the
perspiration rolled off their brows, and yet the strong boxes resisted
all their efforts. Presently, however, Dicky Dunn discovered a long bar
of iron, and the four men, using it as a lever, managed to wrench the
lid of the first box off its hinges. To our utter disgust, however, we
found it empty.
The second chest did not take quite so long as the first to force open,
and as the lid was raised loud cries of joy broke from all our lips.
It was filled to the brim with golden coin!
I examined some and found them to be old Italian, Spanish, and English
pieces—the latter mostly bearing the effigies of Queen Elizabeth and
King Edward VI.
The excitement had now risen to fever heat. The men would have filled
their pockets with the gold, there and then, had not Job Seal drawn a
revolver and in a roaring voice threatened to shoot the first man dead
who touched a coin.
But the gluttony of gold was upon them, and they attacked the third box
with such violence that it was open in a jiffy.
No gold was, however, within—only a big bag of thick hide heavily
riveted with copper, and securely fastened with bolt and lock.
“Bank-notes in that, perhaps!” remarked the skipper excitedly, ignorant
of the fact that there were no bank-notes in the days when that curious
craft had sailed the ocean. “Break it open, boys. Look alive!”
“Be-low!” cried old Dicky Dunn, and as his shipmates drew aside he
raised his axe and with one well-directed blow broke off the rusted bolt
and in an instant half-a-dozen hands were plunged into the leathern
sack.
What they brought forth was certainly disappointing—merely two folded
pieces of yellow, time-stained parchment, one having a big seal of lead
hanging to it by a cord, and the other a small seal of yellow wax
attached to a strip of the parchment itself.
The skipper glanced at them in disgust, and then handed them to me, as a
man of some book-learning, to decipher.
I had steadied myself with my back fixed to the panelling and was
examining the first of the documents, when of a sudden we were all of us
startled by hearing a weird sound which sent through us a thrill of
alarm.
It was plain and unmistakable—a deep, cavernous human voice!
Every man of us stood silent, looked at each other, and held his breath.
“Hark! Why, that’s the ghost wot Dicky Dunn saw!” gasped one of the men
with scared face. “I’ve had about enough of this, mates. It ain’t no
place for us here.”
I stood listening. There was undoubtedly yet another mystery on board
that strange, uncanny vessel that the sea had so unaccountably given up.
CHAPTER III
THE MYSTERIOUS MAN
AGAIN the strange deep voice sounded.
It seemed to come from below the small cabin in which we stood—a
snarling noise as though of a man enraged.
Neither Seal nor his men liked the situation. I could see by their faces
that they were thoroughly scared. They had found gold, it was true, but
below was the owner of it.
“Come on, lads,” urged Dicky Dunn courageously, “I’m going below to make
the acquaintance of the skipper of this ’ere craft. The way is down that
hatchway at the end of the big saloon.”
Encouraged by the old seaman the men moved back into the cabin we had
first entered, and with Dunn I descended the dark stairs to explore,
Seal following close behind us armed with his revolver.
I struck a match and, by its light, saw a quantity of ancient arms and
armour lying with several skulls and bones. Apparently the men were
below when the ship went down, and, the hatches being closed so tightly,
neither air nor water reached them, so that they had been asphyxiated.
The passage led along to a bulkhead, where it took a turn at right
angles and ended with a closed door.
This Seal opened boldly, and we found ourselves in a small cabin, quite
light—for the big square window had been broken out—and furnished in
the same antique style as the big saloon above.
It had an occupant—the strangest-looking creature I ever saw.
He was an old man with long white hair and white beard, a man with a
thin, haggard face and black, deep-sunken eyes. On first entering he
escaped our notice, but we saw him crouching beneath the table, hiding
from us in terror.
His dress, ragged and tattered, was of three centuries ago—short
breeches, a doublet of faded crimson velvet, and an old coat with puffed
sleeves, while in his hand he carried a rusty poniard and seemed
prepared to spring out upon us.
I shall never forget the ghastly look of hatred and terror upon the
queer old fellow’s countenance as he faced us. We all three stood
absolutely dumfounded. It was very interesting to discover a ship lost
for three centuries, but to find a survivor still on board was
incredible.
Yet there was a human being actually in the flesh; a weird old fellow
who, for aught we could tell, had lived on board that vessel for ages.
“Come out, sonny,” cried Seal, when he found tongue; “we won’t eat you.”
In response the weird individual gave vent to that same shrill cry of
rage that had first attracted our attention, brandishing his knife
threateningly, but not budging an inch from his hiding-place.
“Enough of that, my man,” exclaimed the captain, authoritatively. “Come
out and talk like a Christian. Where are you bound for? and how many
days are you out?”
“The bloomin’ ship’s about three ’undred years overdue, I should fancy,”
remarked Dicky Dunn, who was the ship’s humorist.
“Come along,” Seal urged persuasively, placing his hands on his knees
and bending down to him. “Come out of it, old chap, and let’s have a
yarn. I ain’t got any time to spare.”
But the old fellow only gnashed his gums and brandished his knife, for
he appeared to entertain the greatest antipathy towards our skipper.
Presently, after some further coaxing, but receiving no word in reply, I
succeeded in reassuring him that we meant him no harm, and he came forth
from his hiding-place and with a savage grin stood before us. He was
tall and gaunt, about six feet in height and as thin as a lath. But when
we came to question him he steadily refused to answer one single
question.
All the skipper’s queries he resented with marked hostility, and with me
alone was he tractable.
Before long, however, I discerned the true state of affairs. This
strange individual, whoever he was, was dumb, and, further, he was not
in his right mind. Privation and solitude were probably the cause of it;
but whatever the reason, the fact remained that the queer old fellow was
unable to utter one single intelligible word, and he was also not
responsible for his actions.
Now and then he burst into peals of laughter, grinning hideously, with
all the characteristic symptoms of the maniac, and then he would
suddenly strike an attitude as though to attack our skipper.
Fortunately I induced him to put his knife aside, for although rusty it
was still very sharp. By all the means I could think of I endeavoured to
extract some word from him, but in vain. The sounds that escaped him
were deep, gutteral, and utterly unintelligible. By dumb show I tried to
inquire who and what he was, but insanity asserted itself, for he only
gave vent to a demoniacal shriek and cut some absurd capers that caused
all three of us to laugh heartily.
I took out my pocket-book and handed it to him, together with a pencil,
but instead of writing, as I hoped to induce him, he only looked to see
what was contained in the pockets of the book and handed it back to me.
“Well!” cried Seal, “this chap beats everything! Who in the name of
fortune can he be?”
“He’s a mystery,” I answered, utterly puzzled.
“He looks as old as Methuselah,” remarked the skipper. “He’s just as
though he walked out o’ one of them old pictures.”
“He’s a lunatic, ain’t he, doctor?” asked Dunn.
“Most decidedly,” I responded; “and judging from the manner he received
us, he is a rather dangerous one.”
“Well,” said Seal, “we’d better take him on board with us. Perhaps when
he’s had a bit of grub and some rest we’ll be able to make him out. This
mystery is a first-class one—better than any I’ve ever read in books.
How old is he, doctor?”
“Impossible to tell,” I replied. “A good age certainly.”
“As old as this ship?” asked the seaman.
“I think not,” I responded, laughing.
“Well, we must find out something about him,” declared Seal, decisively.
“And what about that chestful of gold, sir?”
“Oh, we’ll ship that, of course,” answered the skipper. “It perhaps
belongs to him, but we may as well hold it till he proves his right to
it,” and he grinned meaningly.
The ancient mariner had turned, and was gazing out through the big open
window to where the _Thrush_ was lying awaiting our return. He seemed
quite calm now, and no longer resented our intrusion upon his privacy.
Indeed, with me he became quite friendly, and when I spoke again
appeared to make an effort to understand me. He pointed to his mouth,
which only emitted unintelligible sounds.
That he was insane there was no doubt. The strange look in his eyes was
sufficient proof of it, but I entertained a hope that his mind was only
unhinged by privation and solitude, and that by careful treatment his
mental balance might become restored.
While we were questioning him the three men we had left above were
rummaging the ship. One of them, it seems, managed by the aid of a rope
to cross the wave-swept deck to the other cabin in the high bows and
with an axe effect an entry. His report was that there were a number of
skeletons there, most of them still in armour, together with
old-fashioned cannon, and he brought back with him a fine banner of
purple silk bearing a golden Maltese cross.
Below where we stood, the waves thundered ever and anon, and the heavy
rolling told us that the wind was increasing.
“We’d better be getting aboard,” Seal remarked anxiously. “If we don’t
make a start we shan’t be able to ship that there gold. You take charge
of the old boy, doctor. What shall we call him, eh?”
“The Mysterious Man would be a good name, sir,” suggested Dunn.
“All right,” responded the skipper. “We’ll put him on the papers as Old
Mr. Mystery. Go above and get the lads to shift that box of gold. Be
careful with it, and mind it don’t go to the bottom.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” responded the grey-bearded seaman; and he went above,
shouting to his shipmates to start work on the removal of the treasure.
He must have made some signal to Thorpe on the _Thrush_, for a few
minutes later we heard the siren blowing, while the men in the small
cabin were working away with a strong will stowing the gold coins into
anything they could find, for with such a sea running it was impossible
to remove the great chest entire, besides which it was heavily bolted to
the floor.
The Mysterious Man accompanied me above, and in silence stood watching
the coin being removed. Sight of it produced no impression upon him
whatever. His agility and fierce antipathy had given place to apathy, as
it so often does in certain phases of insanity.
The old portrait of the thin-faced man in ruffle and doublet caught his
eye, and he faced it and shook his fist at it, as though the original
were his enemy. Then he went through into the main saloon, and, picking
up one of the rusty swords, returned and slashed the picture until the
canvas hung in its frame in ribbons.
The two parchments that we had found in the old leather bag were secure
in my pocket, and the bag was used for the transport of part of the
treasure. While the work of removing the coins was in progress, however,
I seized the opportunity of searching further in the small cabin, and
discovered in the oak panelling a small cupboard, wherein were several
big parchment-bound books looking almost like commercial ledgers.
One of them I opened, and found it to be in manuscript in a crabbed hand
that I could not decipher, but on certain pages were drawn rough plans.
A second volume proved to be a printed book in Latin; and a third a rare
old Book of Hours, printed by Pasquali, of Venice, in 1588. I took
possession of half-a-dozen, but the others seemed to me to be of no
account—one a Latin lexicon, and another a book in which certain
household recipes had been written. All were, as far as I could judge,
books written or printed in the first half of the sixteenth century,
although I knew nothing of the mysteries of palæography or bibliography.
Some of the writing was even and well executed, while the other was
execrable, with long loops and curious dashes and flourishes above
certain letters.
I gave the books I wanted into the hands of one of the sailors, who
lashed them together and lowered them to the boat after the gold had
been safely shipped.
Every moment the gale was increasing, so Seal thought fit to send the
boat back to the steamer with its precious freight before we proceeded,
as the gold weighed heavily, and he feared that if we went with it we
might be swamped.
Through the square window of the big saloon, very like the window of an
old-fashioned house, we watched the boat rise and fall on the long,
green waves as it toiled towards the steamer. We watched one of the men
shout through his hands, and could see the excitement his news created
on board.
Thorpe bent over from the bridge and shouted back, while a dozen willing
hands were ready to haul up the gold.
It was half an hour before they returned for us, and Seal expressed some
doubts about the vessel weathering the storm. The pitching was terrible,
and it was impossible to stand without clinging hold of something.
I occupied the time in searching every nook and crevice in the big
saloon, but I discovered practically nothing, save in a cupboard some
old pewter, over which a collector of such stuff would probably have
gone into raptures, and an old silver tankard, which I took as part of
my share of the loot, together with a helmet, sword, and breastplate.
But at length my search was brought to a conclusion by the boat hailing
us from below, and we lowered the Mysterious Man by means of a rope
around his waist, for he was too decrepit to spring, and the sight of
his skinny legs dangling over the sea was certainly ludicrous. Then,
when we were all clear, the men pulled us through the boiling waves back
to the steamer, and as we looked behind we saw the weird seaweed-covered
craft rocking and rolling as though every minute she must heel over.
CHAPTER IV
IN WHICH I EXAMINE THE PARCHMENTS
THE advent of the stranger on board the _Thrush_ caused an outburst of
surprise and consternation among the men, who stood in a group around
him, addressing him and making remarks upon his personal appearance and
his clothes.
“’E looks like old Father Christmas been starved to death!” I heard one
seaman remark. “Look at his shoes. Them buckles are silver, mates!”
And then for the first time I noticed that the buckles on his shoes were
very beautiful ones.
“There’s something confoundedly mysterious about both the craft and the
man,” declared a seaman who had accompanied us. “There’s lots of
skeletons on board, and old armour, cannon, and things. She was a
battleship, I believe. At any rate, the men on board her were soldiers.”
“If they were, then the old fossil’s a good specimen,” one of them said,
to which the old seaman who had rowed our boat replied:—
“Well, we collared over a thousand quid in gold, sonny. It was in them
heavy bags that are stowed in the skipper’s quarters. Besides, the
doctor’s got a few things—books, bits of parchment, and the like.”
They asked for a description of the craft, and we gave it to them,
explaining the circumstances in which we discovered the Mysterious Man.
The latter was seated on a coil of rope, glancing at us but utterly
apathetic to the fact that he was the centre of attraction. We told them
how the old fellow was both dumb and insane, whereupon their interest in
him was increased fourfold. Their jeering remarks regarding his
gorilla-like countenance and his quaintness of attire were quickly
turned into expressions of sympathy and even the roughest man among them
was ready to render the afflicted stranger any little service.
The armour and books had been placed in my cabin, and when Seal had
related our experiences to Thorpe, the latter suggested that we should
stand by the _Seahorse_ and take her in tow when the gale abated. It
would mean a day or two overdue in London, but we should nevertheless
secure a prize such as no living man had ever before seen. Apart from
the interest in the old vessel and the mystery of how it had come to the
surface after being so long submerged, there were on board many things
of value from an antiquarian point of view.
And so it was arranged that we should lay to that night, and if the wind
went down next day, as Seal believed it would because the morrow was the
fourth day of continued bad weather, we should tow the extraordinary
craft to Valencia, and, if possible, round to London.
The Mysterious Man, after eating ravenously of food set before him,
curled himself up in one of the men’s bunks in the forecastle and soon
went to sleep. One man, a well-spoken, middle-aged sailor named Harding,
was told off to take care of the madman and to see that he did not get
into mischief, while the cure of his intellect was left in my charge.
Together with Seal I proceeded to examine our find. As the sun sank
crimson and stormy, flooding the skipper’s cabin with a blood-red glow,
he and I carefully counted the gold. There were 1,783 pieces, large and
small, and of great variety. The English ones mostly bore the effigies
of Edward VI. and Elizabeth. There were none of James I., but many were
of Henry IV. of France, together with a variety of Spanish doubloons and
Italian pieces. I found none of a later reign than Elizabeth, therefore
I put down the date of the _Seahorse_ as about 1603, or a few years
earlier.
“I wonder whether Old Mystery will claim the coin?” Seal reflected, as
he slowly filled his pipe, having finished the counting.
“As the sole survivor, it most probably belongs to him,” I said.
“But if he’s a lunatic, what claim can he make to it? There’ll be some
job to find the vessel’s owner, I reckon.”
His remark caused me to remember the two parchments I had in my pocket,
and I drew them out, opened them, and examined them carefully.
The first was beautifully and clearly written, about a foot square, and
headed “Cosmvs.” It was in Latin, and I must admit that although I had
passed in Latin up at Edinburgh, I was very rusty in it. The document at
commencement read as follows:—
Cosmus Dei Gratia Magnus Dux Etruriæ, etc. et sacræ Religionis,
et Militiæ Militum S. Stephani Papæ, et Martyris Magnus Magister
et Custos, etc., Dilecto Nobis Pompæo Marie a Paule, Nobili
Pisano et S. Stephani Militi, gratiam uram, et omne bonum.
Then, after a screed of twenty long lines, the document ended:—
Datum Florentiæ die pa. Februarij anno ab incarn. MDCI. Nostri
Magni Ducatus Etruriæ anno VI.
Below were three signatures in ink that had long ago faded yellow, but
so badly written were they that I could not decipher them. At the foot
of the document was threaded a hempen cord, and to it was attached a
heavy leaded seal, a trifle bigger than half a crown. On the obverse was
a Maltese cross, the same as upon the faded silken banner at my side,
and on the reverse a shield bearing six balls, the arms of the
Florentine house of the Medici. Around the cross was the legend “Sancti
Stephani Signum Religioni,” while around the armorial bearings were the
words: “Cosmvs Mag. Dux Etr. Magn. Magis.”
So insufficient was my knowledge of Latin that all I could make out of
the writing was that it was some diploma or deed concerning some one
named Paule, a noble of Pisa. But what honour it conferred upon him I
could not decipher, so I turned my attention to the second parchment.
It was yellower, and penned in a hand so crabbed that for a long time I
could not make out in what language it was written.
[Illustration: “Below were seven scrawly signatures in that strange old
Elizabethan hand.”
_The Tickencote Treasure_] [_Chapter IV_]
At last I decided that the first portion was in the abbreviated Latin of
old documents, for after much puzzling I deciphered that the first words
read “In Dei Nomine, Amen.” At foot was an endorsement in old English,
which I deciphered, making a covenant between certain parties, and below
were seven scrawly signatures in that strange old Elizabethan hand,
namely of Geo. Greene, Gilbert Kanadale, John Ffreeman, Alex. Stephen
Wyon, John Dollington, Clement Wollerton, and George A. Dafte, hys mark.
The bottom of the parchment had been cut until a short strip an inch
wide hung from it, and upon this the round seal of yellow wax had been
impressed, the device upon it being a shield with a leopard rampant,
together with a fleur-de-lys. That is how best I can describe it, not
being versed in heraldic terms.
That the two documents were precious ones could not for a moment be
doubted when I recollected how carefully they had been preserved: first
in that leathern bag and secondly in the treasure-chest. To me, however,
they presented no appearance of value.
“What are they all about, doctor?” inquired the skipper, puffing at his
pipe.
“At present I can’t tell. They’re both in Latin,” I answered, “and we
must wait until we get a proper translation. This”—and I held the
second document in my hand—“was written in the time of Queen Elizabeth,
and seems to be a covenant, or something of the sort.”
“I suppose we can get some lawyer chap to puzzle ’em out?” Seal said.
“Oh, I don’t anticipate any difficulty,” I answered. “Only if there is
any secret attached to them we don’t want to give it away.”
“Ah! I never thought of that,” remarked the skipper. “It is, as you say,
very probable that some secret is contained there, and for that reason
they were so carefully preserved and hidden away. No, doctor, we’d
better not employ a lawyer. He’d want to know too much.”
Then I turned my attention to the books. The first I opened was of fine
white parchment, thick, heavily bound, and written in a bold hand with
many flourishes. A glance through it showed that it was an inventory of
some kind, but it was all in Italian and much beyond me. The only part I
could translate was the commencement, which, as far as I was able to
decipher, read as follows:—
IN THE NAME OF ALMIGHTY GOD _and of His Holy Mother, Saint Mary, and of
St. Peter, and of St. Paul, of St. John the Baptist, and of all the
Celestial Court of Paradise, who have conceded to me the benefit that I
should commence this book sound of body and of mind. Amen._
IN THIS BOOK _written by me, Bartholomew di Simon da Schorno, I have set
down certain things that all men should know, as well as a certain
Secret that one alone may discover to his advantage hereafter._
And then followed about 150 pages of manuscript and memoranda.
Through an hour I diligently endeavoured to decipher correctly regarding
the secret mentioned, but it was in old Italian, with long l’s and s’s,
and therefore extremely difficult to understand.
The date of the conclusion of the book I discovered to be August 16,
1591, on a Friday; while here and there I discovered the name of Paule,
evidently the same family as the Pompæo Marie a Paule, the Pisan noble
mentioned in the document with the leaden seal of Cosimo di Medici.
The author, Bartholomew da Schorno, whoever he was, had certainly
produced a very respectable volume as regards size, and Job Seal and
myself were extremely anxious to learn the secret which, in the
introduction, was said to be contained therein.
The other books were not of great interest save perhaps to a
bibliophile. They, however, showed that their owner was a scholar. The
first, a thin manuscript on paper, and written in a neat Gothic hand,
which I afterwards discovered was of the early fifteenth century, bore
the title, “Trithemius, Liber de Triplici Regione.” The others were a
well-written book of monastic law on vellum, with red and blue capitals
of about the same date, and a kind of old pocket-book, in which was a
treatise entitled “Loci Communes Theologici per Dominicas et Festes
Totius Anni.”
It was the secret of old Bartholomew da Schorno—an Italian,
evidently—that we were eager to discover, for both Seal and I felt
confident that it would reveal to us the name of the dead owner of the
_Seahorse_ and the history of that remarkable resurrection.
In that heavy parchment book was a secret which old Bartholomew declared
“one alone may discover to his advantage hereafter.”
What could it be?
Job Seal and I sat smoking our pipes and wondering what strange things
were hidden within that yellow old volume that emitted so musty a smell.
Little, however, did we dream of the remarkable consequences that were
to follow upon our startling discovery. It is, indeed, well sometimes
that the Book of Fate is ever closed to us.
CHAPTER V
WITH A STORY TO TELL
AT daybreak next morning I was called up to the Mysterious Man, whom I
found standing in a corner of the forecastle holding a loaded revolver
in his hand and pointing it threateningly at anyone who approached him.
He had awoke, I was told, made a tour of the ship, and, gaining
possession of the weapon belonging to the second engineer, proceeded to
fire one chamber point-blank at Thorpe, who was on duty on the bridge.
Then, when pursued, he took refuge in the forecastle, where I found him.
On my approach he calmed down immediately, and handed me the revolver as
obediently as a child. Somehow I seemed to possess an influence over him
which no one else could exercise, and very quickly induced him to return
to his bunk, greatly to the satisfaction of the man who had been told
off to be his keeper, and who had no doubt slept on duty.
The storm showed no sign of abatement, and laying to as we were we
received the full force of the sweeping gale. The skipper was asleep,
snoring loudly, as was his wont, therefore I returned to my berth, and
for a couple of hours watched the capers of the rats, until the motion
of the boat rising and rolling lulled me again to unconsciousness.
Through the whole of the following day we lay off the seaweed-covered
relic of the past until, in the red sundown, the wind dropped, and after
several attempts the men secured a wire hawser to the battered prow, and
when Seal rang, “Full steam ahead,” the _Seahorse_ began slowly to
follow in our wake, amid the loud cheering of those on board.
The Mysterious Man stood on the bridge at my side and watched the
operation with an expression of complete satisfaction, although more
than once, when he believed I was not looking, he would turn and shake
his skinny fist at the curious old craft at our stern.
Our progress was slow, for the _Thrush_ was never at any time a fast
boat. And with such a dead weight behind her the engineer had to be
careful at what pressure he worked our unsafe boilers.
The skipper, after consultation with Thorpe and myself, decided not to
make for Valencia but to tow his prize straight to Gibraltar and on to
London. As the great black hull with its shroud of marine plants rose
and fell behind us it certainly presented more the appearance of Noah’s
Ark, as pictorially represented, than of a sea-going vessel. One fact I
now discovered that I had not before noticed was that on the bows above
the broken figure-head representing a seahorse was a wooden crucifix
perhaps two feet high; broken it was true, but still bearing an effigy
of the crucifixion, while upon the breast of the seahorse was carved a
Maltese cross of similar design to that upon the old silken banner.
The mystery of it all was the sole topic of conversation both on the
bridge and in the forecastle. Every man on board tried to obtain some
word from the castaway, but in vain. He became tractable, ate well,
would not touch grog, but remained always silent. He would stand erect
by the capstan in the stern for hours, and with folded arms watch the
rolling hulk ploughing her way slowly in the long streak of foam left by
our propeller. He still wore his faded velvet breeches, but his bare
legs were now covered by a pair of woollen stockings, while in place of
his ragged doublet he wore an old pea-jacket, and sometimes an oilskin
coat and peaked cap. He still, however, clung to the rusty sword which
he had chosen, a blunt but finely-tempered weapon, and often it would be
seen poking from beneath his oilskin as he walked the deck.
Once an attempt had been made to trim his long white hair and flowing
beard, but this he had resented so vigorously, threatening to spit the
man who held the scissors, that the effort had to be abandoned. He thus
gave them to understand that although he might accept their modern dress
as a loan he would brook no interference with his personal appearance.
Who was he? That was the question which all of us, from Job Seal down to
the apprentices, were anxious to solve.
The mystery of the _Seahorse_ was great enough, but that surrounding the
unknown man was greater. My own theory regarding the vessel was that in
the early seventeenth century she had gone down or aground in shallow
water, perhaps in one of the many coves on the Moroccan or Algerian
coast, but the high prow and stern being closed down so tight both air
and water were excluded. Those on board—fighting men, it seemed—had
perished, but the buoyancy of the ship had been preserved, and by some
submarine disturbance—volcanic, most probably—it had become released
and risen to the surface.
The growth of barnacles, mussels, and weeds over the whole of the vessel
from the stumps of her masts caused Seal to believe that she could only
have been covered at high tide, and that she must have lain hidden in
some well-sheltered spot where the force of the waves had been broken,
otherwise she must have been beaten to pieces. He pointed out to me how
some of the weed on her was only to be found on rocks covered at high
water, yet if the theory were a correct one then she could not have been
hidden in the Mediterranean, as it is an almost tideless sea.
Seal suggested that she might have been aground on the coast of Western
Morocco, a country but little known to the civilized world although so
near one of the greatest trade routes, and that she might have drifted
from the Atlantic to the spot where we had discovered her.
This theory seemed the most likely one, although the presence of the
Mysterious Man was utterly unaccountable.
The main point which puzzled Seal, I think, was what he should do with
the gold. He regarded the poor old fellow as a gibbering idiot, and had
but little to do with him. Customs officers and lunatics were the bluff
old seaman’s pet abominations. He would probably have liked to claim the
hoard of gold himself if it were not for the existence of one with a
prior claim to it, and once or twice he expressed to me an anxiety as to
what his owners would say to it all. They were skinflints of the worst
type, and would, I expected, probably lay claim to it themselves.
Steaming slowly we passed the Gib. and made a straight course for Cape
St. Vincent, which we sighted at dawn one rainy morning, then hugging
the Portuguese coast we safely passed the mouth of the Tagus, being
hailed more than once by other craft, the skippers all asking us with
humorous banter what we had in tow.
Fortunately the weather had improved greatly, and even as we traversed
the Bay of Biscay we had no reason to complain, for the old _Seahorse_
rode proudly in our wake, rocking a good deal on account of its
house-like shape, but nevertheless giving Seal the greatest
satisfaction.
“It’ll make ’em open their eyes, doctor, when we tow ’er up the Thames,”
he often said, as he paced his bridge and looked at her straining on the
hawser.
Never a day passed but I occupied myself diligently with the documents
and manuscripts that had fallen into my hands, but I am fain to confess
that beyond what I have already explained to the reader I discovered
absolutely nothing. Although I had passed my final examination and could
write M.D. after my name, my book-learning was not sufficiently deep
that I could decipher and understand those crabbed old screeds.
I showed them to the Mysterious Man, hoping that they would attract his
attention and give me some clue to their meaning, but he remained quite
passive when he saw them, and turning upon his heel looked out through
the round port-hole.
I certainly was very anxious to get back to London to obtain some
opinion upon the big vellum book in which Bartholomew da Schorno
declared there was a secret that would be discovered hereafter. My
voyage, besides being a pleasant one, had been full of excitement, for
we had found an object the like of which no living eye had seen,
together with an individual who was a complete and profound mystery.
The weather was all that could be desired when we entered the Channel,
keeping close in to the coast of Normandy as far as Dieppe, and then
taking a direct course across to Beachy Head, where we were signalled as
homeward bound. When, however, we were off Folkestone, about nine
o’clock one night, a squall struck us so suddenly that even Job Seal was
unprepared for it. The glass had fallen rapidly, he had noticed, but
such a heavy squall as it proved to be was not to be expected at that
season of the year. Within a quarter of an hour a terrific sea was
running, and the _Thrush_ seemed ever and anon thrown almost on her
beam-ends. I noticed that Seal’s face for the first time during our trip
betrayed some anxiety, and not without cause, for he suddenly
exclaimed:—
“Ah! just as I expected. Blister my kidneys, doctor, but we’ve no
bloomin’ luck. That hawser’s parted!”
I turned quickly to look astern, and there, sure enough, the _Seahorse_
was adrift and out of our wake. Until that moment the strain on the
hawser had kept her comparatively steady, but the instant the steel
cable had broken she pitched upon her beam-ends, burying her nose deep
into the angry waves.
We both stood gripping a rail and watching, neither of us uttering a
word.
For perhaps five minutes the antique vessel strove again and again to
right herself, until one wave greater than the others crashed over her
high stern. From where we stood we could hear the breaking of glass and
the shivering of the heavy timbers that, half rotten, now broke up like
matchwood.
Then almost immediately the saloon which we had explored began to fill,
and slowly before our eyes she went down stern first.
The men, watching like ourselves, set up a howl of disappointment, and
Seal gave vent to a volley of nautical expressions which need not here
be repeated; but the Mysterious Man, who had also noticed the disaster,
began dancing joyously and cutting capers on the deck, heedless of the
storm raging about him. It was evident that the final disappearance of
the _Seahorse_ gave him the utmost satisfaction.
As for ourselves, we gazed with regret upon the mass of floating timbers
that were swept around us. It was to our bitter chagrin that, after
towing that relic of a bygone age all those miles at a cost of fuel and
time, we had lost her almost at the mouth of the Thames.
But regret was useless. The _Seahorse_, with its freight of crumbling
skeletons, had gone down again, and would certainly never reappear. So
Job Seal drew his oilskin closer around him, lamented his infernal luck,
and, recollecting the thousand odd pieces of gold in his cabin, turned
and gave an order to the helmsman which caused the bows of the _Thrush_
to run nearer towards the dark line of England’s cliffs between
Folkestone and Dover.
Lights white and green were beginning to show in the distance, those of
other ships passing up and down Channel, and as I stood by his side in
my dripping oilskins I congratulated myself that if we weathered the
squall I should be safely back in London in a very few hours, with as
strange a story to tell as any man had related.
CHAPTER VI
AN EXPERT OPINION
ON the night following the regrettable disaster to the _Seahorse_ I was
back again in the cheap and rather comfortable rooms I had occupied for
a couple of years or so in Keppel Street, Chelsea. It is a thoroughfare
in which nearly every house exhibits the enticing legend, “Apartments to
Let,” mostly in permanent, neatly-framed signs of black and gold.
Mrs. Richardson, my landlady, was “full” and had been for a year past,
so No. 83, where I had diggings, was a quiet, eminently respectable
house, a fitting, residence for a man of my serious calling. When,
however, I returned with the Mysterious Man in a well-worn seaman’s
suit, unkempt head, and his sword in hand instead of a cane, Mrs.
Richardson looked askance at me.
I explained that my friend had come to live with me for a few weeks, and
that I should want an extra room; when she, good soul, looked him up and
down, noticed the big cracks in his sea-boots and the slit in the sleeve
of his pea-jacket, and rather reluctantly replied that she would turn
one of the servants out and prepare the room for my friend.
Presently, however, I took her aside and explained the curious facts,
whereupon she said:—
“Lor’, doctor! Only fancy! The old gentleman may be two hundred years
old!”
“Ah!” I remarked, “his age is only one of the minor mysteries connected
with the affair. It is in order to solve them that I’ve decided that he
shall remain under my care and treatment. He’s just a little wrong in
his head, you know. Nothing at all serious.”
“He didn’t answer me when I spoke to him.”
“No, for a very good reason. He’s dumb.”
“Two hundred years old, insane, and dumb! Lawk a mercy! He is a strange
old gentleman.”
“Well, Mrs. Richardson,” I said, “you’ve been very kind to me for the
past two years, and I hope that you will do me the favour of looking
after my friend.”
“Of course I will, doctor. But what’s his name?”
“He has no name. We call him the Mysterious Man.”
“Old Mister Mystery the girls will call him, I expect. But it don’t
matter what they nickname him if he’s wrong in his head.”
I laughed and, leaving her, returned to my sitting-room, where the old
castaway was engaged in examining all the objects in the room. He had
opened the back of my small American timepiece and was watching the
movement as though he had never hitherto seen any such mechanical
contrivance.
The day had been a busy one for me. I had arranged with Seal that the
old fellow should remain with me while the mystery of the _Seahorse_ was
solved, and as regards the gold we had placed the whole of it in a big
sea chest, sealed it, and that afternoon had deposited it in the care of
the manager of the Tottenham Court Road branch of the London and
South-Western Bank, where I had a small account.
The documents, manuscripts, armour, and silver tankard which I had
secured from the ancient vessel I had carried to Keppel Street. The
skipper was, of course, busy on the first day of landing, but his
chagrin was intense that he had lost the _Seahorse_. That we had really
discovered it could, of course, be proved by those vessels that had
spoken us in the Channel, but proof of that sort was not like towing the
remarkable relic up the Thames.
His owners, it appeared, were extremely angry at his being nearly a
fortnight overdue, and that he had wasted time and fuel upon what they
declared was a worthless derelict. According to what he afterwards told
me, he had a bad half-hour with the senior partner of his firm, and very
nearly got his notice of dismissal. He pointed out to the smug,
go-to-meeting old gentleman, who was a churchwarden down at Chislehurst,
that the boilers of the _Thrush_ were in such a state that he dare not
steam at any pressure, whereupon the senior partner replied:—
“That matters nothing whatever to us, Seal. The boat’s insured, and we
should lose nothing.”
“No; but myself and the crew may lose our lives,” observed the skipper.
“If your berth does not suit you, Seal, there are many other men quite
ready to sail in your place,” was the calm rejoinder.
And after that Seal left the office as quickly as he could, in order to
give vent outside to his private opinion of the firm and their line of
ships. This he did very forcibly, in language that only a Mediterranean
skipper is in the habit of using.
Now that I was back again, enjoying the comfort of my own shabby little
sitting-room after the small, stuffy cabin of the _Thrush_, one rather
curious incident caused me to reflect.
It occurred on the morning after the loss of the _Seahorse_. The squall
had gone down. We had passed the Nore and were steaming full ahead into
the mouth of the Thames. I had been seated on the bridge with Seal and
Thorpe for a couple of hours or so when I had occasion to descend to my
cabin.
On entering I found an intruder in the person of Harding, the seaman who
had been told off as the keeper of the Mysterious Man. He did not notice
my approach, for I had on a pair of tennis shoes with rubber soles,
therefore I stood in the doorway for a few moments watching him.
He had spread open that document with the seven signatures that had so
puzzled me, and with paper and pencil seemed to be scribbling some notes
as to its purport. Strange, I thought, that a common seaman could
decipher those ill-written lines of Latin where I had so entirely
failed. So I watched and saw how, with his head bent to the open
port-hole in order to obtain a good light, he was carefully deciphering
the words contained there, and I detected by the expression on his
countenance that what he found entirely satisfied him. Upon the small
piece of paper in his palm he scribbled something now and then, and was
just slipping it into his pocket, when I asked in a hard voice:—
“Well, what are you doing here?”
He turned with a start, his face flushed in confusion, and stammered:—
“Nothing, doctor. I—I was only looking at this old parchment you got
out of Noah’s Ark.”
“You’ve been reading it,” I said. “I’ve watched you making some extracts
from it. Give me that paper.”
He made a movement to place it in his pocket, but at the same moment I
snatched the old document from his other hand and arrested his effort to
conceal the scrap of paper.
“You have no right here,” I said angrily, “and I demand that paper
whereon you have made notes of an affair that does not concern you.”
“I shall not give it you,” he responded defiantly.
“Then I shall call the captain.”
“You can do so if you wish. I shall be paid off to-day, so it doesn’t
matter.”
“Give it to me,” I cried, incensed at the fellow’s insolence, and made a
swift movement to seize his wrist. He was, however, too quick for me,
for, grasping my arm with his left hand, he screwed up the paper with
his right and dropped it through the porthole into the sea.
I saw it flutter for a moment in the air and drop into the surging water
ten yards away.
“Leave this place at once,” I commanded. “You have no right here, and
have evidently entered for some dishonest purpose. I shall inform
Captain Seal at once.”
“All right,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders as he went through the
doorway, “you needn’t get your wool off, doctor. I was doing no harm,
surely, having a look at that old scribble.”
But the truth was patent. That man, an ordinary seaman, had read and
understood what was written there. That look of supreme satisfaction on
his face was sufficient to tell me that he had gained knowledge of some
secret hidden from me.
Benjamin Harding was a seaman of exemplary conduct, it was true. He
drank little, seldom swore, and was much more careful of his personal
appearance than the rest of the grimy crew. His speech betokened a
somewhat better education than the others, and I had more than once
detected beneath his rough exterior traces of refinement. More than
once, too, I had overheard him repress a too expressive imprecation from
the mouth of one or other of his shipmates. Tall, lean, and muscular,
his age I judged to be about forty, his beard and hair sandy, and his
eyes a washed-out grey. His cheeks showed marks of smallpox, and under
his left eye was a long white scar. I returned to the bridge and told
Seal of the incident, but the pilot not yet being aboard he was too much
occupied with the navigation of the ship to be able to reprimand the man
there and then.
So I went again to my cabin and counted over my treasures, finding to my
satisfaction that none were missing.
I saw but little more of the man Harding. The skipper later on told me
that he had given the fellow a good talking too, and that he had
expressed his regret at his insolence. He had, however, only shipped for
the voyage, and would be paid off that day, therefore it was useless to
do more than remonstrate.
Nevertheless, the incident disturbed me. I had a strange, indescribable
intuition that the man Harding had obtained possession of some secret
hidden from me; that the apparently ignorant seaman was acquainted with
the Latin script and with those puzzling abbreviations which had so
utterly floored me. Before my eyes he had deciphered line after line,
reading it off almost as easily as the copies of _Lloyd’s_ and the
_Dispatch_, that found so much favour in the forecastle. Yet why had he
taken such precaution to destroy the memoranda he had written if the
facts did not relate to some secret from which he expected to receive
benefit?
Thus, while the Mysterious Man slept soundly in the room prepared for
him, I sat for a long time over my pipe trying to decipher the uneven
scribble and pondering over what might be written on that time-stained
parchment.
Next day Seal came to see me, dressed in his shore-going toggery—a neat
navy blue suit and a peaked cap a size too small for his ponderous head.
The Mysterious Man so far demonstrated that his senses were returning
that he expressed pleasure at meeting the skipper by holding out his
hand to him, a fact which gave both of us satisfaction.
“I’m busy unloading now, you know, doctor,” the captain said, in his
deep, cheery voice, “so I must leave it all to you. Act just as you
think fit. For my own part I think we ought to get them parchments
deciphered. They might tell us something interesting.”
“And the gold?”
“For the present we’ll stick to that,” was his prompt reply. “If anybody
claims it we’ll investigate their claim, as the insurance people say,
but as far as I can see the only person entitled to it is that lunatic
over there,” and he jerked his thumb in the direction of the Mysterious
Man.
He drank deeply of my whisky, and pronounced it good. We chatted for an
hour or more, and when I asked about Harding he merely answered:—
“Oh, the fellow was paid off last night. I’m quite your way of
thinking—there was some mystery about that chap. I’ve made inquiries
and find that he hadn’t been many voyages before, because he betrayed
ignorance of many common terms at sea, and gave himself away in lots of
details.”
“He was an educated man,” I remarked.
“Yes, I believe he was. He’s left one or two books about the forecastle
which are not the sort that sailors read.”
“What class of books?” I inquired.
“Oh, one was a Latin dictionary, another an odd volume of _Chambers’
Encyclopædia_, and a third book called _Old English Chronicles_,
whatever they are.”
The latter was certainly not a work in which a sailor would be
interested. I had known it at college, the mediaeval chronicles of
Geoffrey of Monmouth and other monks, a volume of the driest and most
uninteresting kind, save to an antiquarian student. Yes, I felt more
convinced than ever that Benjamin Harding was not what he had pretended
to be.
The Mysterious Man had taken to smoking. I had purchased for him a
shilling briar at a tobacconist’s in King’s Road, and while we talked he
sat puffing at it and looking aimlessly down on the street. The pity of
it all was that the poor old fellow was dumb. Even though a lunatic he
might, if he could have spoken, have given us some clue to his past. But
up to the present we were just as ignorant as to who or what he was as
in that first moment when we had discovered him in the dark cabin of
that death-ship.
To his old rusty sword he clung, as though it were a mascot. Even now he
wore it suspended from his waist by a piece of cord that had come from
off my trunk, and at night it reposed with him in his room. Once it had
no doubt been the sharp, ready weapon of some swaggering elegant, but it
was now blunt, rusted, and scabbardless, only its maker’s name and the
remarkable temper of its blade showed what it once had been.
A week later I set about to discover some one who could decipher the
parchments and the book containing the hidden secret of Bartholomew da
Schorno, for therein I anticipated I should discover some clue to the
mystery of the _Seahorse_. In the Manuscript Department of the British
Museum I obtained the address of a certain Charles Staffurth, who, I was
told, was an expert upon the court and commercial hands of the sixteenth
and seventeenth centuries.
So to his address in the Clapham Park Road, I carried my precious book
and documents, and sought an interview. A prim old gentleman in
steel-rimmed spectacles received me in a back room fitted as a study,
and after the first half dozen words I recognized that he was a scholar.
I told the story of my discovery, to which he listened with breathless
interest, and when I undid the brown paper parcel and revealed the
parchments his eyes fairly danced with expectation and delight. He was
an enthusiast.
He bent over them, handling them with a reverence and fondness which
showed him to be a true palaeographist. He ran quickly through the pages
of the vellum book and remarked:—
“Ah! they are not numbered, I see. Sixteenth century hand of Central
Italy!”
He recognized it at once, without looking for dates.
“Really doctor—Doctor Pickering,” he exclaimed, glancing at my card,
“this is a most remarkable story. I’m sure it will give me the greatest
pleasure to look through these papers, and I will do so if you will
leave them with me for a day or two. The book, you see, is voluminous,
and will require a good deal of deciphering. They have many such at the
Museum, so I have experience of the difficulties in reading them. Let’s
see, to-day is Tuesday. Will you call on Thursday afternoon? By that
time I hope to have read the greater portion of what is contained here.
If, however, I discover anything of very great importance I will
telegraph to you.”
And so it was arranged. I remained chatting with him for nearly half an
hour, and then returned to my strangely silent companion, the Mysterious
Man.
The old expert had evidently been much impressed by my story, and had
commenced to decipher the documents as soon as I took leave of him, for
at eleven o’clock next morning I received a telegram from him, worded as
follows:—
“Please call here at once. Most important discovery.—Staffurth.”
CHAPTER VII
WHAT WAS WRITTEN IN THE VELLUM BOOK
AS soon as I entered Mr. Staffurth’s little study I saw by his manner
that the discovery he had made filled him with interest.
“I have lost no time in going through your documents,” he said calmly,
when I was seated by his table. “Your story of the finding of the
strange ship with the mysterious survivor on board was most interesting,
and last night, after you had gone, I turned my attention at once to
this book, written by Bartholomew da Schorno.”
“And you have discovered the secret?” I asked eagerly.
“Not entirely,” he responded. “But I have deciphered sufficient to tell
us a curious narrative, and to explain to some degree the mystery of the
_Seahorse_. Are you acquainted with the history of Tuscany?”
I replied in the negative. I knew my history of England fairly well, but
had never cared for the study of the history of other countries.
“In that case I must first explain to you a few historical facts, in
order that you may rightly understand the situation,” he said. “During
the late fifteenth century the southern coasts of France, and especially
of Italy, from the Var mouth along to Leghorn, were continually raided
by the Corsairs of Barbary, who ravaged the towns and villages and
carried thousands of Christians into slavery, in Algera and Tunis. The
great breakwater at Algiers was constructed by them, and at one of the
gates of the city are still preserved the hooks upon which the
unfortunate captives were hung to die if they offended their cruel
taskmasters. So bold were these pirates and so terrible their
depredations, especially in the country between Savona and the mouth of
the Arno, that in the year 1561, by a privilege granted by Pius IV., an
order of chivalry was founded, called the Knights of St. Stephen, the
members being all of the Italian aristocracy, and the object to
construct armed ships to sweep these Corsairs from the sea.
“The headquarters of the Order were in Pisa, then an important city,
where they constructed a church which still remains to this day hung
with banners taken from the Corsairs, a magnificent relic of Italy’s
departed glory. The founder of the Order was Cosimo di Medici, who,
according to the volume here”—and he placed his hand upon a folio bound
in yellow parchment—“took the habit in the Cathedral of Pisa on March
15, 1561, of Monsignor Georgio Cornaro, the Papal Nuncio.
“I fear,” he continued, “that these are rather dry details of a chapter
of the forgotten history of Italy, but if you will bear with me for a
few minutes I think I shall be able to explain the mystery to a certain
extent. These extremely rare volumes I have obtained from the library of
my friend, Sir Arthur Bond, the great Italian historian, in order that
you may examine them.” And opening the first at the title page he placed
it before me. Printed in big rough capitals on the damp-stained page
were the words:—
_I pregj della Toscana nel’ Imprese piv ’segnalate de’ Cavalieri di
Santo Stefano. Opera data in Lvce da Fulvo Fontana della Compagnia di
Gesù. In Firenze MDCCI._
The other was a somewhat thicker but smaller volume, parchment bound
like the first, its title being _Statuti dell’ Ordine de Cavalieri di
Stefano_ and contained in Italian a complete history of the Order, the
bulls of the Popes concerning it, the regulations of its church and
administration of its funds.
It was evident that Mr. Staffurth, although an elderly man, was not one
to let grass grow beneath his feet. He pored over the books, blinking
through his spectacles, and then continued his explanations, saying:—
“It seems that the first admiral of this primitive fleet was Guilio di
Medici, and although the knights rowed in galleys against the stronger
ships of the Turks they succeeded in capturing three of the latter on
their first voyage in 1573. From that year down to 1688 they waged
continuous war against the Corsairs, until they had burned most of the
strongholds of the latter, and entirely broken their power on the sea.
Now,” he added, “you told me something of a banner with a cross upon
it.” And opening the bigger volume he showed me a large copper-plate
engraving of one of the battles wherein vessels exactly similar in build
to the _Seahorse_ were engaged, and each was flying a flag similar to
the one I had discovered.
“The Maltese cross,” he explained, “was the distinguishing badge of the
Knights of St. Stephen who fought for Christianity against the
Mohammedans, and succeeded in liberating so many of the white slaves. No
movement was perhaps more humane, and none so completely forgotten, for
even the Order itself is now discontinued, and all that remains is that
grand old church in Pisa, nowadays visited by gaping tourists. From my
investigations, however, it seems quite plain that the _Seahorse_ was
one of the ships of the Order, and although of English name, and
probably of English build, its commander was the noble Bartholomew da
Schorno, who had as lieutenant Pompæo Marie a Paule. The latter, as
stated in the document with the leaden seal, was appointed commendatore
by Cosimo the Second.”
“Then the fact is established that the reason cannon and armed men were
aboard the _Seahorse_ was because she was engaged in the suppression of
piracy?” I said.
“Exactly. Your remark regarding the banner with the Maltese cross gave
me the cue, and I have, I think, successfully cleared up the first
point. And, furthermore, you have recognized in this picture vessels
built on the same lines. This picture, as you will see, represents the
taking of the fortress of Elimano from the Corsairs in the year 1613.”
“Then do you fix the date of the loss of the _Seahorse_ about that
period?”
“I cannot say,” he responded. “It might have been ten, or even twenty
years later.”
“Not more?”
“No; not more. In these later pictures you will see that the vessels
were of somewhat different build,” and the old expert turned over folio
after folio of the rare and interesting volume.
“All this, however,” he remarked, “must be very dry to you. But you have
sought my aid in this curious affair, and I am giving it to the best of
my ability. We men who make a special study of history, or of
palæography, are apt to believe that the general public are as absorbed
in the gradual transition of the charter hands, or the vagaries of the
Anglo-Norman scribes of the twelfth century, as we are ourselves.
Therefore, I hope you will forgive me if I have bored you, Dr.
Pickering. I will promise,” he added, with a laugh, “not to offend
again.”
“No apology is needed, my dear sir,” I hastened to reassure him; “I am
so terribly ignorant of all these things, and all that you discover is
to me of most intense interest, having regard to my own adventures, and
to the existence of a survivor from the _Seahorse_.”
“Very well then,” he answered, apparently much gratified; “let us
proceed yet another step.” And he placed aside the two borrowed volumes.
“Of course, I have not yet had sufficient time to decipher the whole of
this volume written by Bartholomew da Schorno, but so far as I have gone
I find that the writer, although of Italian birth, lived in England, and
it is with certain things in England that occurred in 1589 and 1590 that
he deals—matters which are mysterious and certainly require
investigation.”
From between the parchment leaves of the heavy book he drew several
sheets of paper, which I saw were covered with pencil memoranda in his
own handwriting, and these he spread before him to refresh his memory
and make certain of his facts.
“From what is written here in old Italian—which, by the way, is not the
easiest language to decipher—it seems that Bartholomew, the commander
of the _Seahorse_, was also a Commendatore of the Order of St. Stephen,
and a wealthy man who had forsaken the luxuries of ease to fight the
Corsairs and release their slaves. Most probably he was owner of the
vessel of which his compatriot Paule was second in command. This,
however, must be mere conjecture on our part for the present. What is
chronicled here is most important, and it was in order to consult you at
once that I telegraphed.”
Then he paused, slowly turned over the vellum pages with his thin white
hand, glancing for a few moments in silence at his memoranda. He had
worked for hours over that crabbed yellow handwriting; indeed, he
afterwards confessed to me that he had not been to bed at all,
preferring, as a true palaeographist, to decipher the documents in the
quiet hours instead of retiring to rest.
“It seems that this Bartholomew da Schorno was an Italian noble who,
falling into disgrace with the Grand Duke of Ferrara, sold his estates
and came to live in England during Elizabeth’s reign,” he said. “As far
as I have yet been able to gather, it appears that he purchased a house
and lands at a place called Caldecott. In my gazetteer I find there is a
village of that name near Kettering. The main portion of the manuscript
consists of a long history of his family and the cause of the quarrel
with the Grand Duke, written in a kind of wearisome diary. When,
however, he comes to his visit to England, his audience with Queen
Elizabeth, and his decision to settle at Caldecott, he reveals himself
as a man aggrieved at the treatment he has received in his own country,
and yet fond of a life of excitement and adventure. It was the latter,
he declares, that after a few years’ residence in England induced him to
become a Knight of St. Stephen and to sail the seas in search of the
Corsairs in company with ‘the dear friend of his youth, the noble Pompæo
a Paule, of Pisa.’”
“But the secret,” I said interrupting him.
“As far as I have yet deciphered the manuscript I can discover nothing
of it, only the mention that you have seen in the commencement. The book
ends abruptly. Perhaps he intended to explain some secret, but was
prevented from so doing by the sinking of his ship.”
Such seemed a most likely theory.
“The reason I called you here was to suggest that you should go to this
place, Caldecott, and see whether any descendants of this Italian
nobleman are still existing. They may possess family papers, and be able
to throw some further lights on these documents. The place is near
Rockingham and not far from Market Harborough.”
This suggestion did not at that moment appeal to me. We were still too
much in the dark.
“Have you read the other document?” I inquired. “I mean the one with the
seven signatures and the seal with the leopard.”
“Yes,” he responded, and I noticed a strange expression pass across his
grey countenance; “I have made a rough translation of it. The Latin is
much abbreviated, but its purport is a very remarkable one. At the
present moment it is, perhaps, sufficient for me to briefly explain the
contents without giving you the long and rather wearisome translation.”
Then, taking up his pencilled notes again, he continued: “It is nothing
else than a statement by this same Bartholomew da Schorno relating a
very romantic circumstance. On a date which he gives as August 14, in
the thirty-first year of Elizabeth’s reign—which must be 1588—he was
sailing in a ship called _The Great Unicorn_, and when off the Cornish
coast encountered a Spanish ship which vigorously attacked them. This
vessel proved to belong to the defeated Armada, and had escaped the
chase by Howard, but by clever manœuvring of _The Great
Unicorn_—presumably a ship used to fight the pirates of Barbary—the
Spanish galleon was captured after a terrible encounter with great loss
on both sides. On board was found a quantity of gold and silver,
jewelled ornaments, and other treasure worth a great sum, and this being
transferred to _The Great Unicorn_, together with the survivors of the
crew, the vessel itself was scuttled and sent adrift. Our friend
Bartholomew was evidently commander of the victorious vessel, for he
weathered the storm which practically destroyed the remnant of the
Spanish fleet, sailed up Channel, and landed his treasure secretly at
Great Yarmouth, afterwards concealing it in a place of safety. As his
was not an English warship and he had merely assumed a hostile attitude
and fought fair and square in self-defence, he claims that he was
entitled to the gold and jewels that had fallen into his hands.
“The persons who knew the place of concealment numbered seven, all of
whom signed a covenant of secrecy. They were Englishmen, all of them,
and evidently the trusted followers of Bartholomew. The covenant enacts
that the treasure shall remain untouched under the guardianship of one
Richard Knutton, who was left ‘at the place of concealment’ for that
purpose. The seven men each swore a sacred oath to make no attempt to
seize any part of the gold or jewels, they having each received from
their master an equal amount as prize-money. The remainder was to lie
hidden until such time as the Order of St. Stephen should require funds
for the prosecution of their good work of rescuing Christian slaves,
when it was to be carried to Italy. This, of course, seems rather a
romantic decision, but there is added a clause which shows that this
Bartholomew was not only a chivalrous man, but was also fully alive to
the wants of posterity.
“The second covenant provides that if the Order of St. Stephen never
required funds, the secret of the existence of the treasure is to
descend in the family of Richard Knutton alone, but two-thirds of the
treasure itself is to become the property of the youngest surviving
child of the family of Clement Wollerton, whom Bartholomew names as ‘my
esteemed lieutenant, who has twice been the means of saving my life,’
and ‘the remaining third to its guardian, the descendant of the said
Richard Knutton, seaman, of the Port of Sandwich.’”
“A very curious arrangement,” I said. “How do you understand it?”
“Well,” the old man remarked, fingering the yellow parchment with its
faded scribble, “it seems quite plain that a large amount of treasure
was seized from a Spanish galleon, brought ashore at Yarmouth, and
concealed somewhere under the care of three persons—Richard Knutton,
George A. Dafte, and Robert Dafte. If the Knights of St. Stephen have
never claimed it, as most probably they have not, for they were a very
wealthy association right up to the time of their extinction at the end
of the seventeenth century, then the gold and jewels still remain
concealed, the secret still being in the hands of the lineal descendants
of Richard Knutton alone, and the heir to it, the youngest child of this
Wollerton family.”
“But have you discovered the place of concealment?” I asked anxiously.
“No. I expect the secret mentioned in this volume written at a later
date has something to do with it, but I have not yet deciphered the
whole. On the other hand, however, I cannot help thinking that if seven
persons were aware of the secret hiding-place, and had signed the
covenant, old Bartholomew would scarcely write it down on parchment that
might fall into an enemy’s hands.”
CHAPTER VIII
THE SEVEN DEAD MEN
HIS argument was quite logical. There was no doubt that the Italian had
at first intended to make a permanent record of the secret, but had
afterwards thought better of it. He was evidently no fool, as shown by
the testamentary disposition of the Spanish loot.
I took up the parchment, with its dangling seal, and noticed a dark
smear across it. The old expert told me that the stain was a smear of
blood.
“Then the secret is in the hands of some one named Knutton, and the
right owner of two-thirds of the concealed property is a Wollerton?”
“Exactly.”
“Is there any accurate description of the treasure?”
“Yes. It is contained in an appendix in Bartholomew’s handwriting; a
careful inventory of the numbers of ‘pieces of eight,’ the ornaments,
bars of gold, and other objects of value. One gold cup alone is set down
as weighing five hundred ounces.” And he turned over the leaves of
vellum and showed me the inventory written there in Italian, a long list
occupying nearly eighteen pages.
“The family of Knutton, knowing the secret, may have seized the treasure
long ago,” I remarked.
“No, I think not,” was his reply. “In the document it is distinctly
stated that a certain deed had been prepared and handed to Richard
Knutton in order that it should be given to his eldest son and then
descend in the family, and that so guarded was it in wording that it was
impossible for any one to learn the place of concealment. Therefore,
even if it still exists in the family of Knutton—which is an old
Kentish name, by the way, as well as the name Dafte on the document, it
would be impossible for the family to make any use of it.”
“Then where is the key plan of the place where the gold is hidden?” I
queried.
“Ah, that, my dear sir, is a question I cannot answer,” he replied,
shaking his head. “We may, however, hazard a surmise. We have gathered
from Bartholomew’s own writings that he lived at a place called
Caldecott, which would be about a hundred miles from Great Yarmouth, as
the crow flies. Now, my theory is that he most probably transported the
treasure by road to his own property as the most secure place for its
concealment.”
“Most likely,” I cried, eagerly accepting his idea. “He would be much
more prone to place it in his own house or bury it on his own lands than
on property belonging to some one else.”
“Exactly. That is the reason why I suggest that you should take a
journey to Caldecott and make inquiries if any of the names of the
present inhabitants coincide with any of the nine names mentioned in
this document.”
“Well,” I said, excitedly, “the affair is growing in interest. A
treasure hunt here in England is rather unusual in these days. I hope,
Mr. Staffurth, you can find time to accompany me for a couple of days
down there.”
“No,” he declared, “go down yourself and see whether you can discover
anything regarding persons bearing any of these names.”
Then taking a slip of paper he copied the seven signatures, together
with those of Richard Knutton and Bartholomew da Schorno himself,
afterwards handing it to me.
“The treasure may, of course, be concealed at Caldecott,” he said.
“Indeed, if it is still in existence and intact, it is, I conjecture,
hidden there. At any rate, if you make careful investigation, and at the
same time avoid attracting undue attention, we may discover something
that will give us a clue. The treasure, you must recollect, was placed
in hiding about three hundred years ago, and it may have been discovered
by some prying person during those three centuries.”
“Well,” I said, “it is quite evident that these documents themselves
have fallen into no other hands except our own.”
“True; but seven persons, in addition to this Richard Knutton, knew the
place where the loot was hidden. One or other of them may have broken
their oath.”
“They might all have been on board the _Seahorse_ when she was lost,” I
suggested. “From the rough manner in which the agreement was prepared it
seems as though it were written while at sea.”
“Exactly. It was certainly never prepared by a public notary. The men
evidently did not think fit to expose their secret to any outsider—they
were far too wary for that, knowing that the English Government would in
all probability lay claim to it.”
“So they will now, even if we discover it. It will be treasure-trove,
and belong to the Crown.”
“Not if it is claimed by its rightful owner—the youngest child of the
Wollertons.”
“You don’t believe that this book contains the secret of the
hiding-place after all?” I suggested.
“No. Unless my theory is correct that it was transferred from Yarmouth
to Caldecott. Why should he have sailed in the teeth of that great gale
from the Cornish coast right round to Yarmouth if he had not some object
in so doing?”
“Well,” I said, “it forms a curious story in any case.”
“Very curious. This old Italian seems to have been an adventurer as well
as a noble, judging from his own statements. The Turkish ships he seized
in the Mediterranean he sold and pocketed the money, and more than once
in the capture of the Corsair strongholds a big share of valuable loot
fell to him. So it was not altogether from motives of humanity that he
had become a Knight of St. Stephen, but rather from a love of profitable
adventure.”
I recollected how I had stood beside a skeleton that was undoubtedly
his, a man of unusual stature still wearing a portion of finely inlaid
Italian armour such as I had seen in museums.
“He must have been a wealthy man,” I remarked.
“Undoubtedly. And, furthermore, if we discover the spot where the
treasure is hidden, we may also discover the loot that he most probably
secured and brought to England for concealment.”
“Is anything stated regarding his family?”
“He had one son, but his wife died of the plague in Italy two years
after her marriage. The son he names as Robert, but no doubt he was not
on good terms with him, otherwise he would have left the secret to him,
and the treasure as an inheritance.”
I slowly turned over in my mind the whole of the strange circumstances.
It hardly seemed credible that Richard Knutton, the guardian of the
treasure, should die without revealing its whereabouts to any one,
especially as his family was to profit one-third on its distribution.
This I mentioned to Staffurth, but the latter pointed out that the
secret was probably transmitted in some unintelligible form, and would
therefore be useless without the key. Besides, the family of Knutton
were most probably in ignorance of what was contained in those
documents, considering that they had been always at sea for the past
three centuries.
Leaving old Mr. Staffurth to continue the deciphering of the Italian
manuscript, I returned to Chelsea.
The Mysterious Man was seated at the window, his sword against his
chair, covering sheet after sheet of paper with grotesque arabesques,
wherein the Evil One seemed to be constantly represented. He took no
notice of my return, therefore I awaited the coming of Dr. Gordon
Macfarlane, the great lunacy specialist of Hanwell Asylum, who shortly
arrived.
I introduced my patient, but the latter only grasped his sword and fixed
the specialist with a stony stare.
Macfarlane tried to humour him, and asked him a few questions. To the
latter, of course, he received no response. We both examined the quaint
drawings, and the more we looked into them the more marvellous seemed
the execution—the work of a madman, certainly, but such an intricate
design that few first-class artists could imitate.
Macfarlane was, I could see, much interested in the case, and was quite
an hour making his diagnosis. Presently, however, he took me aside into
the adjoining room and said:—
“A very remarkable case, Pickering. I have only met with one which at
all bore resemblance to it. Now, my own opinion is that the old fellow
is at certain brief moments quite sane—a sign that he will, in all
probability, recover. I should be inclined to think that his mental
aberration has not been of very long duration, six months perhaps. He
has certain fixed ideas, one of them being the habitual carrying of his
sword. He also, I noticed, is interested in any mechanical
contrivance—my watch, for instance, attracted his attention. That is a
symptom of a phase of insanity of which a cure is hopeful. And as
regards his dumbness, I believe that it is due to some sudden and
terrible fright combined, of course, with his unbalanced mind. Do you
notice his eyes? At times there is a look of unspeakable terror in them.
With a cure, or even partial cure, of his insanity, speech will, I
believe, return to him.”
This favourable opinion delighted me, and I thanked the great specialist
for his visit, whereupon he admitted his interest in the unusual case,
and said that if I would allow him he would take it under his charge in
his own private asylum down at Ealing.
So next day I conveyed the Mysterious Man to “High Elms,” as the place
was called, and, having left him in charge of the superintendent, packed
my bag, and set out on the first stage of my journey to discover the
whereabouts of the hidden loot.
I undertook it with a light heart, now that the responsibility of
keeping the Mysterious Man in safety had been lifted from my shoulders,
but so many were the mysteries which crowded one upon the other, and so
many the secrets which circumstances alone unravelled, that I think you,
my reader, will agree with me, when you know all, that the pains old
Bartholomew da Schorno took to conceal the whereabouts of his treasure
betrayed a cleverness which almost surpasses comprehension.
Well, I went to Caldecott about a month after landing in England, for a
family matter occupied me in the meantime, and if you will bear with me
I will tell you what I discovered there.
CHAPTER IX
ONE POINT IS MADE CLEAR
CALDECOTT was, I found, a very out-of-the-way little place. The pretty
village of Rockingham, with its long, broad street leading up the hill
and the old castle crowning it, was its nearest neighbour, for at that
station I alighted from the train and walked through the noonday heat
along the short, shadeless road pointed out by the railway porter.
The country in that district is of park-like aspect, mostly rich
pastures with spinneys here and there, and running brooks; but on that
blazing summer’s day, with the road shining white before me, I was glad
enough when I got under the shadow of the cottages of Caldecott.
My first impression of the place was that the village was both remote
and comfortable. The cottages were mostly well kept and nearly all
thatched, with quaint little attic windows peeping forth here and there
and strange old gable ends. Every house was built of stone, solidly and
well, and every cottage garden seemed to be gay with jasmine,
hollyhocks, sunflowers, and other old-world flowers. Not a soul was in
the village street, for in that great heat the very dogs were sleeping.
Behind, on a slight eminence, stood a fine old church of Early English
architecture, with narrow, pointed lancet-shaped windows similar to
those in the choir of Westminster Abbey, and as I passed, the
sweet-toned bell from the square ivy-clad tower struck two o’clock.
Walking on a short distance I came to a small open space which in olden
days was, I suppose the village green, and seeing an inn called the
Plough I entered the little bar parlour and called for some ale. The
place seemed scrupulously clean and comfortable, very old-fashioned, but
well-kept, therefore I decided to make it my headquarters, and engaged a
room for at least one night.
The young woman who waited upon me having explained that she and her
brother kept the place, I at once commenced to make some inquiries. It
was, I knew, most necessary that I should avoid attracting any undue
attention in the gossiping little place, therefore I had to exercise the
greatest caution. I gave her a card and explained my presence there to
the fact that I was taking a holiday and photographing.
“By the way,” I said, standing at the bow window which gave a view on to
the church, “whose house is that away among the trees?”
“The Vicarage, sir. Mr. Pocock lives there, a very-nice gentleman.”
“Has he been vicar long?” I inquired.
“Oh, he’s been here these five years, I think, or perhaps a little
more.”
“And is there an old Manor House here?”
“Yes, sir. Right up the top end of the village. Mr. and Mrs. Kenway live
there. They’re new tenants, and have only been there about a year.”
“Is it a large house?”
“One of the largest here—a very old-fashioned place.”
“Is it the oldest house?”
“Oh, yes, I think so, but I wouldn’t care to live in it myself,” and the
young woman shrugged her shoulders.
“Why?” I inquired, at once interested and hoping to learn some local
legend.
“Well, they say that all sorts of strange noises are heard there at
night. I’m no believer in ghosts, you know, but even rats are not
pleasant companions in a house.”
“Who does the place belong to?”
“To a Jew, I think, who lives in Ireland. Years ago, I’ve heard, the
place was mortgaged, and the mortgagee foreclosed. But lots of people
have rented it since then, and nobody within my recollection has lived
there longer than about three years.”
What the young woman told me caused me to jump to the conclusion that
the house in question was once the residence of Bartholomew da Schorno,
and after finishing my ale I lit a cigarette and sauntered forth to have
a look at the place.
I need not tell you how eagerly I walked to the top of the village, but
on arrival there I saw no sign of the house in question. I inquired of a
lad, who directed me into a farmyard gate, whence I found a short,
ill-kept road which ended in a _cul-de-sac_, leading into a field. On my
right was a clump of elms, and hidden among them was the quaint and
charmingly old-world Manor House.
First sight of the place was sufficient to tell me that it had been
allowed to fall into decay, and certainly it was, even in that summer
sunshine, a rather dismal and depressing place of abode.
The old cobbled courtyard was overgrown with moss and weeds, and some of
the outbuildings had ugly holes in the roofs. The house itself was long,
low, and rambling, of Elizabethan architecture, with old mullioned
windows, built entirely of stone, now, however, grey with lichens and
green with moss on the parts which the clinging ivy had failed to cover.
The outside woodwork, weather-beaten and rotting, had not been painted
for a century, while upon one of the high square chimneys stood forth
the rusty iron angle of a sundial, from which, however, most of the
graven numerals had long ago disappeared.
The high beech hedge which formed one of the boundaries was sufficient
proof of the antiquity of the place, but the trees of the broad pleasure
grounds, which had no doubt once extended far away down to the river,
had been cut down and the land turned into pastures, so that only a
small, neglected kitchen garden now remained. The place, even in its
present decay, spoke mutely of a departed magnificence. As I stood
gazing upon it, I could imagine it as the residence of the lord of the
manor in the days when peacocks strutted in the grounds, when that
moss-grown courtyard had echoed to the hoofs of armed horsemen, and the
talk was of the prowess of Drake, of Walsingham’s astuteness, of the
martyrdom of Mary at Fotheringhay, and the fickleness of the Queen’s
favour.
Determined to make the acquaintance of the present occupiers, even
though it might or might not be the former residence of old Bartholomew,
I went up to the blistered door and pulled a bell, which clanged
dismally within, and made such an echo that I wondered if the place were
devoid of furniture.
My summons was answered by a rather stout, middle-aged woman, who, in
response to my inquiry, informed me that she was Mrs. Kenway. I was
somewhat taken aback at this, for I had believed her to be a servant,
but the moment she opened her mouth I knew her to be a countrywoman.
I was compelled to make an excuse for my call, so I invented what I
conceived to be an ingenious untruth.
“I have called to ask you a favour,” I said, “My mother was born in this
house, and being in the neighbourhood I am most anxious to see the old
place. Have you any objection?”
“Oh, no, sir,” was the kindly woman’s prompt response. “Come in; you’re
very welcome to look round, I’m sure. No, keep your hat on, there are so
many draughts.”
“Is it draughty, then?”
“Oh, sir,” she said, shaking her head and sighing; “I don’t know what
the place used to be in days gone by, but me and my husband are truly
sorry we ever took it. In winter it’s a reg’ler ice-well. We can’t keep
ourselves warm anyhow. It’s so lonely, and full of strange noises o’
nights. I’m not nervous, but all the same they’re not nice.”
“Rats, perhaps.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” And she led me along the narrow passage where the
stones were worn hollow by the tread of generations, and ushered me into
a small, low room where black beams ran across the ceiling. But, oh! the
incongruity of that interior. Over the old panelling was pasted common
wall-paper of hideous design in green and yellow, while the furniture
was of modern description, quite out of keeping with the antiquity of
the house. As she led me through room after room I noticed how
successive tenants had, by papering and white-washing, endeavoured to
turn the place into a kind of modern cottage home. Much of the old
woodwork had been removed, and even the oaken doors were actually
painted and grained! The staircase was still, however, in its original
state of dark oak, and handsomely carved, and the stone balustrade which
ran round the landing was a splendid example of Elizabethan
construction. Half the rooms were unfurnished, but the good woman took
me along the echoing, carpetless corridors and showed me the various
chambers above as well as below.
Could that ruinous place be the one which the noble adventurer had
chosen for the concealment of the loot?
The place certainly coincided in date with the written statement, but I
had nothing to connect it with the name of da Schorno. Perhaps, however,
some of the title-deeds connected with the place might tell me
something, so I obtained from Mrs. Kenway the name and address of the
landlord, a man named Cohen, living in Dublin.
“This isn’t at all the house me and my husband wanted,” she declared.
“Our idea when we took it was to take paying guests, because I’m used to
lodgers. I let apartments for six years in Hunstanton, and our idea in
coming here was to take paying guests, as they call ’em nowadays. We
advertised in the London papers and got two ladies, but they only stayed
a fortnight. It was too quiet for them, they said. Since then several
people have been, but I haven’t let once.”
I was certainly not surprised. If I were paying guest in that house I
should go melancholy mad within a week. Besides, as far as I could see,
the place was comfortless. An appearance of freshness was lent it by the
new paper in execrable taste in the hall, and a gaudy new linoleum upon
the beautiful old polished stairs, but beyond that the interior was just
as dingy and cold-looking as the outside.
Indeed, so depressing was my visit that I was rather glad when it was
over. One or two of the upstair rooms were panelled, with oak evidently,
but the woodwork had been painted a uniform white, while the floors were
rickety and suggestive of dry-rot.
She had another two years’ lease of the place, Mrs. Kenway regretted to
say. They were trying to re-let it, for if compelled to keep it on until
the end of the term it would swallow up all their slender savings.
“You see, we are earning nothing, except a little that my husband gets
out of canvassing for an insurance company. But it takes him out so
much, and I am left alone here from morning till night.”
I was secretly glad to hear of this state of things, because if I could
prove that the house had belonged to old Bartholomew, it might become
necessary for us to rent it and make some investigations.
Through the lattice window of the long, low room wherein I stood a wide
view could be obtained across the neglected garden and the pastures
beyond away down to the river, and as I looked forth it occurred to me
to ask what rent was required.
“We pay forty-five pounds a year,” was her reply.
“Well,” I said reflectively, “I know some one who wants a quiet house in
the country, and I’ll mention it to him if you like.”
“Oh, I’d be most thankful, sir,” she cried, enthusiastically. “The
gentleman would be quiet enough here. There are no neighbours, and not
even a passer-by, for, as you see, the road leads to nowhere.”
Again I wondered whether, concealed in that weird, tumble-down old place
were the gold and jewels from the Spanish galleon and the spoils from
the Corsairs of Barbary. Behind that panelling upstairs might be
concealed treasure worth a fortune. As far as my cursory observations
went, there was no likely place downstairs, unless, as in many old
houses of that character, there was a “priest’s hole” cunningly
concealed.
I went forth accompanied by the lady who was waiting in vain for paying
guests, and examined the front of the house, which faced south towards
the sloping pastures.
Walking a little way back into the wilderness of weeds which was once a
garden, I looked up to the row of long mullioned windows, and saw in the
centre of the dark grey wall a large square sculptured stone bearing the
date 1584. Above was a coat-of-arms cut in the crumbling stone, a device
that was in an instant familiar to me.
As my eyes fell on it I could not repress a cry of satisfaction, for
there was the leopard rampant with the fleur-de-lys, the very same
device that was upon the seal of the document with the seven signatures
I had found on board the _Seahorse_!
Thus was it proved most conclusively that it was the actual house
mentioned by Bartholomew da Schorno, for it bore his arms, with the date
of either its construction or restoration.
I talked with Mrs. Kenway for some little time as an excuse to linger
there, and when I left I held out strong hopes to her that I might
induce my friend to take the remainder of the lease off her hands.
CHAPTER X
THE GUARDIAN OF THE SECRET
I HAD some tea at the Plough, with fresh butter and cream which, after
those weeks on board the _Thrush_, were delicious.
Much gratified that I had at last discovered the house of the noble
freebooter, I set to work to make inquiries regarding the family of
Knutton, the hereditary guardians of the treasure, and of the
descendants of Clement Wollerton, who, it appeared, had been
Bartholomew’s lieutenant, and whose skeleton I had most probably seen on
board the _Seahorse_.
The innkeeper’s sister was still communicative, so I asked her if she
knew any one of either name in the village.
“No, sir, I don’t know any one of such name in Caldecott,” she answered,
after reflecting a few moments. “There’s old Ben Knutton, who lives in
Rockingham.”
“What kind of a man is he?”
“Well, his character’s not of the best,” she answered; “he’s a labouring
man, but he’s a lazy, good-for-nothing old fellow, who frequents every
inn in the district.”
“Married?”
“No, a widower. He lives in a cottage close to the Sonde Arms, in the
main street of Rockingham.”
The description she gave was certainly not that of the hereditary
guardian of the Italian noble’s treasure. Nevertheless, as he was the
only person of that name in the district, I decided to walk back past
the station and on to Rockingham, a distance of about a mile, and make
his acquaintance.
It was a lovely summer’s evening, and the walk through the cornfields
was delightful, although my head was filled with the strange, old-world
romance which within the past few weeks had been revealed to me. The
main point which occupied my attention was whether the treasure was
still hidden—or had it ever been hidden?—in that tumble-down old Manor
House. In order to make secret investigation it would be necessary to
rent the place and carefully search every hole and corner. Some of those
panelled, low-ceilinged rooms above were, to me, attractive. A good deal
might be hidden there, or in the roof.
After some inquiries I found the man Knutton’s cottage, small,
poorly-furnished, close-smelling, and not over clean. A slatternly girl
of fourteen called “Uncle! You’re wanted.” And a gruff voice responded
from the upstairs room. He came heavily down the narrow, uncarpeted
stairs, a rough-looking type of agricultural labourer, in drab moleskin.
His age was about sixty-five, with beery face, grey eyes,
round-shouldered, and wearing his trousers tied beneath the knee, and
boots that had never known blacking.
“Your name’s Ben Knutton, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. That’s my name.”
“Well, Mr. Knutton,” I said, “I want to have a few minutes’ chat with
you alone.”
I noticed that he looked somewhat aghast. Afterwards I learnt that he
was an expert poacher, and he probably believed me to be a detective.
Through a decade or so he had had a good deal of the Marquis of Exeter’s
and Mr. Watson’s game, and the major part of it had found its way by an
irregular route to Northampton market.
He first went very red, then white, his hand trembled, and he had to
steady himself for a moment.
“Just go out for a minute or two, Annie,” he said to his niece. “I want
to speak to this gentleman. Take a seat, sir.” He pulled forward one of
the rush-bottomed chairs from beside the rickety old bureau.
“Don’t think, Mr. Knutton, that I’ve come here with any hostile intent,”
I said, in order to reassure him. “I’ve come to Rockingham expressly to
ask you one or two questions regarding your family. I am making some
investigations about the Knuttons, and perhaps you can assist me. Have
you any brothers or sisters living?”
“No, sir, I haven’t. My brother Dick died this ten years ago.”
Dick! Then that man’s name was Richard Knutton!
“Did he leave any sons?” I inquired.
“Only one—young Dick. He enlisted, and was killed in Afghanistan.”
“He enlisted after his father’s death?”
“Yes, sir,” he answered, more at his ease.
“Your family is a very old one in this neighbourhood, isn’t it?”
“One o’ the oldest, they says. The Knuttons lived at the Manor Farm up
at Caldecott for more’n a hundred years. But we’ve come down in the
world since then.”
“The Manor Farm is the one attached to the Manor of Caldecott, eh?”
“It’s close to Caldecott Manor House. There’s fifteen hundred acres o’
land with it. And nowadays, sir, I often works on that self-same land
for Mr. Banks, what owns it now.”
“Are you the oldest of your family?”
“No, sir, Dick was. I was the second. Dick was the lucky ’un, and was
old Mr. Banks’ foreman for years; that was in the present Mr. Banks’
father’s time, when farmin’ was a lot better than what it is now. Lor’,
sir, in this district three-quarters of the farms scarcely pay their
rents. All the landlords ought to be generous like the Duke o’ Bedford;
but they ain’t, and we labourers have to suffer.”
“More work and less beer,” I remarked, with a laugh.
“Well, sir, when you mention beer, I’d be pleased to drink a pint at
your expense.” A remark which showed the rustic cadger.
“And so you shall when we’ve finished our talk,” I said. “Tell me, have
you ever heard or known of any person called Wollerton?”
“Wollerton!” he repeated. “Why, now that I remember, that’s the very
question the gentleman asked me the day before yesterday.”
“What gentleman?” I gasped.
“A gentleman I met in the Sonde Arms. He said he knew me, but I didn’t
remember ever having set eyes on him before. He treated me and then
asked me a whole lot of questions, some of ’em very similar to what
you’ve asked me. I don’t understand what he or you—beggin’ your pardon,
sir—are driving’ at.”
“But this person who was so inquisitive? What kind of man was he?”
“A middle-aged gentleman from London. He stayed the night at the Sonde
Arms, and left in the morning. He was a tall, fair man, and funnily
enough seemed to know a lot about my relations.”
“You don’t know his name?”
“No, he didn’t tell me.”
This fact was certainly strange. Was it possible that some other person
was in possession of the secret of the hoard and had forestalled me in
making inquiries?
This beery labourer seemed, without doubt, a descendant of the Richard
Knutton whose signature was written upon the faded parchment. As
guardians of the treasure, the Knuttons had apparently been given the
Manor Farm in order to be constantly near the spot where the spoils of
war were concealed. Their residence at the farm through generations
appeared to show that instructions had passed from father to son, and
had, until seventy years ago, been strictly observed. Then the family
had fallen upon evil times, and the descendants had degenerated into
labourers, the youngest enlisting as a private soldier.
“I suppose you told this gentleman you met all about your family, just
as you’ve told me—eh?”
“Pretty well the same story.”
“What else did he ask you?”
“Well, he wanted to know one or two rather queer things about my family
history—things I’d never heard nothing about. My father always did used
to say that we were entitled to a big fortune, and he’d heard it from
his father. Only that fortune ain’t come, and I don’t suppose it ever
will. But both you gentlemen coming to me and asking the same questions
has aroused my curiosity.”
“Ah!” I said. “Fortunes that are talked of in families are usually
phantom ones. Why, there’s scarcely a family in England who don’t
believe that they’ve been done out of their rightful inheritance.”
“I know that, sir. I could name twenty people in Rockingham who believe
themselves the rightful heirs to property. That’s why I never believed
the story about our fortune. My poor old father had to go on the parish
before he died—a shilling a week and two loaves. So the idea of the
fortune didn’t benefit him much.”
“But what was the story which your father told you?” I inquired.
“Oh, it was quite a romance. Half the people in Rockingham know about
it, because when the old man used to get a drop o’ beer he always
boasted of the great wealth that would be his some day.”
“But what was the story? Tell it to me as nearly as you can remember
it.”
“Well, he used to say that long ago—hundreds of years, I think—the
Knuttons were rich, but one son turned an adventurer, and accumulated a
big treasure of gold and silver. This he hid away very carefully,
because in those times there was no banks and places like there is now;
but he left the secret in the hands of the head of the family, to be
handed down for a certain number of years.”
“Then has it come down to you?” I asked quickly.
“No, sir, I only wish it had,” he laughed. Although a hard drinker, as I
could tell from his puffed cheeks and unsteady hand, I was fortunate in
finding him on that occasion quite sober.
“Perhaps the term of years ended and the fortune was realized,” I
suggested, for to me it seemed more than probable that the secret of the
hiding-place had been discovered long ago.
“No, sir, I think not,” was the old man’s prompt reply. “If it had, we
should have all been in a better position. No, I believe the whole thing
is a fable, as every one has declared it to be. Why here, in Rockingham,
they used to call my father ‘Secret Sammy,’ because when he was drunk he
always spoke mysteriously of what he called ‘The Secret.’”
“Have you any idea of the reason your family left the Manor Farm?”
“Owing to several bad seasons on top of each other. They were ruined,
like hundreds of others. I’ve heard say that the last of the Knuttons
who had the place used very often to go up to London by the coach, and
he was fond of gambling. That was what really ruined him.”
“Do you know anything about the Manor House—who lived there when you
were a boy?”
“Why that’s one of the questions the stranger asked me in the Sonde
Arms,” he exclaimed.
Very curious certainly, I thought. Who could possibly be aware of the
secret given up by the sea except myself, Mr. Staffurth, and Job Seal?
“And you told him, I suppose?”
“I told him that old Squire Blacker lived there with his wife and two
daughters from my early recollection. They all died, except the elder
daughter, who didn’t marry, and lived there for over twenty years, an
old maid. When she died the place was bought by a Jew living in Ireland,
and there’s been lots o’ tenants since. They never stay long because o’
the damp and the rats. I worked there seven years ago, helpin’ to do a
drain, and the rats were something awful. I never saw such monsters in
all my life. Young Jack Sharpe’s terrier killed nearly a couple of
hundred of ’em in one day. The stackyard is so close, you see.”
“As far as you know, your family has never had any connection with the
Manor itself?” I asked.
“I never heard it,” he replied. “We were at the Manor Farm for
generations, as I’ve told you—but never at the Manor House.”
“And you don’t believe the story about the fortune awaiting you
somewhere?”
“Well, sir, I wish I could believe it,” was the old man’s answer. “We’ve
been awaiting for it long enough, ain’t we?”
I laughed, as though I shared his view with regard to the legend. At
that juncture it was not my intention to tell him the object of my
inquiries, and when he pressed me I turned the conversation into a
different channel.
As I had promised, I went with him across to the Sonde Arms and regaled
him with beer. Then when he saw the tangible reward for his
communicativeness he endeavoured to assist me further.
“I say, missus, what was the name o’ that there gentleman who stayed
’ere the night afore last? You know—the gentleman who talked such a lot
to me in yon little parlour?”
“Oh, he gave his name as Purvis—Charles Purvis, of London, is what he
wrote in the book,” answered the landlady. “But I think you were a fool,
Ben—a big fool. I didn’t like that man at all. He wanted to know too
much about everybody’s business.”
“Yes, he was a bit curious like,” and the old man glanced meaningly at
me. “But why was I a fool, missus?”
“Why to sell him that old bit of parchment. If nobody could make it out
in Rockingham, there were lots of people up in London who could have
read it. Perhaps it has to do with your fortune—you don’t know.”
“What!” I cried, starting to my feet; “did you sell the stranger a
parchment? What kind was it?”
“It looked like a deed, or something of the sort,” explained the
landlady, “and it’s been in Ben’s family for years and years, they say.”
“Young Dick gave it to me before ’e went a soldierin’. His father had
given it to him, telling him to be sure and not part with it. So he gave
it to me for fear he might lose it. It had a yellow seal a-hanging to
it, and a whole lot o’ scrawly signatures. I showed it to lots of
people, but nobody could make head nor tail of it.”
“And you sold it—the night before last?” I cried, in utter dismay.
“What was the good o’ keepin’ it? The stranger offered me half a
sovereign for it, and I wasn’t the one to refuse that for a bit o’ dirty
old parchment what nobody could read.”
CHAPTER XI
FORESTALLED
MERE words fail to express my chagrin. Job Seal could perhaps have
uttered remarks sufficiently pointed and appropriate, but for myself I
could only reflect that this unknown man who called himself Mr. Purvis,
of London, had forestalled me.
The parchment he had purchased of this drink-sodden old yokel might, for
aught I knew, give a clue to the spot of which I was in search. We had
more than a thousand golden guineas locked up safely in the bank in
London, but both Seal, Mr. Staffurth, and myself felt certain that the
great bulk of the treasure still remained undiscovered.
But what was the explanation of these inquiries by the mysterious
Purvis? He evidently knew that the family of Knutton had been appointed
hereditary guardians of the Italian’s hoard, and he, like myself, was
investigating the possibility of securing it.
I asked the old labourer, Ben Knutton, to describe the parchment he had
sold, but owing to the landlady’s sharp and well-meant remonstrance he
was not communicative.
“It was all stained and faded so that you could hardly see there was any
writin’ on it at all,” he said vaguely.
“But there was a seal on it. What was it like?”
“Oh, it was a thick, round bit o’ wax what had been put on to a narrow
piece of parchment and threaded through at the bottom so that it hung
down.”
“Did you ever notice the device on the seal?” I inquired eagerly.
“There was a lion, or summat—it were very much like what’s on the stone
in front o’ Caldecott Manor.”
That decided me. The document the foolish old simpleton had sold for
half a sovereign was the one that had been in his family since the days
of Queen Elizabeth, and in all probability gave some clue, if a guarded
one, to the secret.
“This stranger knew all about the Knuttons?” I hazarded.
“Lor’ bless you yes. He knew more about my family than I do myself. Been
studying ’em, he said.”
I smiled within myself. Whoever this man Purvis was he was certainly no
fool.
“Well,” observed the landlady, addressing me, “my own opinion is, sir,
that Ben has made a very great mistake in selling the paper to a
stranger. He don’t know what it might not be worth.”
“I quite agree,” I said. “The thing should have been examined first.”
“Oh,” said the old man, “Mr. Beresford, who was the parson before Mr.
Pocock, borrowed it from my brother Dick and kept it a long time, but
couldn’t make head nor tail of the thing. He said it was written in some
kind of secret writing.”
“In cipher, perhaps,” I remarked. And it then occurred to me what Mr.
Staffurth had told me, that at the end of the sixteenth century a great
many private documents were so written that only those in possession of
a key could decipher them. It might be so in the case of the one in
question.
“How big was it?” I inquired.
“Oh, when it wor spread out, it measured about a foot square. It folded
up, and there was some scribbling on the back. I remember that my
father, just afore he died, called Dick to him and told him to look in
the bottom of the old chest—the one I’ve got at home now. He did so,
and brought the faded old thing out. I’d never seen it before, but my
father told Dick to keep it all his life, and give it to his eldest son.
He made Dick promise that.”
“And before your brother Dick died he carried out his father’s wish?”
“Yes, sir. Then young Dick gave it to me. I thought half a sovereign for
it was a good bargain.”
“It all depends upon what it contained. It might have been of great
importance to your family,” I said; “it might have had to do with the
fortune which it is supposed to be yours by right.”
“Ah, sir!” the landlady exclaimed, smiling. “We’ve heard a lot about
that great fortune of the Knuttons. I used to hear all about it when I
was a girl, how that if they had their own they’d be as rich as the
Marquis of Exeter. It’s an old story in Rockingham.”
“It was foolish in the extreme to sell a document of the contents of
which he was ignorant,” I declared. “But he’s parted with it, and it’s
gone, so, as far as I can see, nothing can be done.”
“Where’s the half-sovereign?” asked the landlady sharply of the old
fellow.
“Spent it.”
“Yes, on drink,” she said. “You know very well you treated all your
friends out of it, both here and at the other inns, and that you haven’t
been sober these two days till to-night. If you didn’t have so much
beer, Ben Knutton, it would be better for you, and for us too, I can
tell you that.”
“That’s enough, missus,” the old man said, “you’re always grumbling, you
are.”
I left the old yokel sitting on a bench over a big mug of beer and
chatted with the landlady. In the course of conversation I asked if she
knew any one of the name of Woollerton, but she was unaware of any
person bearing that cognomen. Then in the summer twilight I strolled
back to my headquarters in Caldecott, much puzzled over the curious
manner in which I had been checkmated by this mysterious Purvis.
As far as it went my visit there had been satisfactory, because I had
established the fact that there was truth in the story of Bartholomew da
Schorno’s property at Caldecott, and that in the family of Knutton there
had been, until two days ago, a document similar in form to that I had
found on board the _Seahorse_. We had in the bank tangible proof that
the owner of the _Seahorse_ was a man of wealth; therefore I could not
help believing that there was treasure stored somewhere ashore. Besides,
the local legend of the fortune of the Knuttons added greatly to its
possibility.
I smoked with a couple of farmers that evening, and learnt what I could
from them. It was not much, only that a few years ago some one had taken
the Manor House with an idea of turning it into a private lunatic
asylum.
“Did it answer?” I asked of one.
“No. They had only three gentlemen, so I suppose it didn’t pay.”
Neither of the men knew anything regarding the facts I desired to prove.
They were not natives of the place, one being from Orton, in
Huntingdonshire, and the other from Islip, near Thrapston. So they were
not versed in the legendary lore of the place.
I ate my plain supper alone, and went to bed when the house closed at
ten. But betimes I was up, and before noon next day was sitting in Mr.
Staffurth’s little back study.
He had before him a big pile of valuable manuscripts which he was
deciphering and investigating, part of his profession being to catalogue
and value manuscripts for certain well-known dealers and auctioneers.
This is a profession in itself, and requires the most erudite knowledge
of the mediaeval literature of Europe, as well as an acquaintance with
the rarity of any particular manuscript. Piled on the table was a batch
just sent from one of the West-end firms who employed him. Most of the
bindings were the original ones—oaken boards covered with leather, some
were of purple velvet mostly faded, while the manuscripts themselves
were of a varied character, Latin Bibles of the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries, an exquisite fifteenth century _Horæ_ with splendid
illuminations and miniatures, a rare copy of what is known as _La Bible
de Herman_, a fine Gothic copy of Du Guesclin, with miniatures in
_camaïeu gris_ heightened with gold, a tenth century Hieronymus, and a
dozen other smaller manuscripts, the value of none being below fifty
pounds apiece.
“Ah!” cried the old gentleman, pushing his spectacles to his forehead as
I entered, “I’m very glad to see you, doctor,” and he moved aside a
wonderfully illuminated _Horæ_ that he had been examining, counting the
number of leaves, the number of lines to a column, the number of
miniatures, and determining its date and where it was written.
“So you’ve been down to Caldecott. Well, what did you discover?”
I took the cigarette he offered and, flinging myself in the old
arm-chair, related all that had transpired and all that I had
discovered.
As I did so he drew towards him the old vellum volume that I had
discovered on board the _Seahorse_—the book written by Bartholomew da
Schorno—and opened it at the place where he had put in a slip of paper
as mark.
“You certainly have not been idle,” he remarked. “Neither have I. To be
brief, doctor, I have, after spending the whole of yesterday upon this
manuscript, at last discovered the secret referred to in the beginning.”
“You have!” I gasped excitedly. “What is it? The secret of the
treasure?”
“No, not exactly that,” was his answer, calm and slow as befitted an
expert in such a dry-as-dust subject as faded parchments. “But there is
given here the key to a certain cipher which may assist us in a very
great degree. There is, or rather was, in the possession of Richard
Knutton and his family a certain document written in cipher explaining
how and where the Italian had disposed of his secret hoard. It was
written in cryptic writing in order that the Knuttons themselves,
although guardians of the secret, should not be able to seize the
treasure. Only by means of this book can the document entrusted to them
by old Bartholomew be deciphered. Here is a full description of it. Let
me read in English what it says:—
I HAVE THIS DAY, THE FOURTH OF MAY, 1590, given into the hands
of my trusted lieutenant, Richard Knutton, a parchment wherein
is explained the hiding-place of all I possess, including all
that I took from the Spanish galleon two years ago. I have
presented unto this same Richard Knutton the Manor Farm of
Caldecott as a free gift to him and to his heirs for ever, while
he has sworn before God to hand down the sealed parchment to his
eldest son, and so on until the gold shall be wanted for the
treasury of the noble Knights of St. Stephen. The document is in
cipher that no man can read, but hereunto I attach a key to it
by which the secret of the treasure-house may at the proper time
be revealed and its contents handed over, either to the Knights
at Pisa or to the youngest representative of the house of
Wollerton, as I have already willed.
“Then,” remarked the old expert, “there follows an alphabet to which he
has fortunately placed the cipher equivalent, and by means of which we
should be enabled to make out the document in the hands of the
Knuttons.”
“Mr. Staffurth,” I said gravely, interrupting him, “I much regret to
tell you that we have been forestalled.”
“Forestalled! How?” he cried, starting and turning to look at me full in
the face.
I explained my meeting with the besotted Ben Knutton of Rockingham, and
of how, only two days ago, he had sold for half a sovereign the actual
document we wanted, and had been drunk for a couple of days afterwards.
“What bad luck!” exclaimed the old man. “What infernal luck! If we had
got hold of that the secret would have been ours within an hour or two.
But as the thing has passed into other hands—well, as far as I can see
at present, we must remain utterly in the dark.”
“Yes. But there’s a great mystery surrounding the identity of the person
who has so cleverly forestalled us,” I said. “Who can he be? And how can
he be aware of the existence of the treasure?”
The old man shook his head.
“My dear doctor,” he said, “the whole affair is a very romantic and
mysterious one. It certainly increases our difficulties a hundredfold,
now that the last of the Knuttons has sold the parchment that has been
in his family for three centuries or so. Still, we have at least one
satisfaction, that of knowing that the person into whose hands it has
passed can make nothing out of it without the key contained here.” And
he smiled with evident satisfaction.
“We must discover the identity of this man who calls himself Purvis,” I
said firmly. “Perhaps we can obtain it from him.”
“We must—by fair means or foul,” remarked Mr. Staffurth calmly, taking
off his spectacles and wiping them carefully. “I agree with you
entirely. We _must_ recover possession of that parchment.”
CHAPTER XII
JOB SEAL MAKES A PROPOSAL
CAN you, my reader, imagine a more tantalizing position than the one in
which I now found myself? It took a great deal to arouse enthusiasm in
the breast of old Mr. Staffurth, whose interest in the world had seemed
to me as dried up as those musty parchments he was so constantly
examining. But the mystery of it all had certainly awakened him, and he
was as keen as myself to get to the bottom of it—and to the treasure,
of which I had promised him a small portion as repayment for his
services.
Next day I went down to Fresh Wharf and found the _Thrush_, with cranes
creaking over her, looking more grimy and forbidding than ever. As I
went on board the men one and all saluted me, and when I knocked at the
door of the captain’s cabin there came a low gruff growl—
“Well, what is it now?”
I announced who I was, and was of course at once admitted. Job Seal, in
shirt and trousers, had been lying in his bunk smoking, taking his ease
after a full night ashore in company with his “chief.” He had been
reading the paper, and a big glass of brandy and soda at his elbow told
its own tale.
“Come in, come in, doctor,” he cried cheerily, holding out his enormous
hand; “I intended to come over and see you to-night. Well, what’s the
latest news of Old Mystery?”
“As I told you, he’s in the hands of the first specialist in lunacy in
London, and under treatment at a private asylum.”
“Will he get better?”
“Nobody can tell that. The doctor, however, anticipates that he will.”
“Well, I hope by the time I get back from this next trip he’ll have told
you his story. We sail to-morrow on our usual round—Cardiff, Leghorn,
Naples, Valencia, and home. But I don’t suppose we’ll be picking up any
Noah’s Arks this trip—eh?”
“No,” I laughed. “I see that a paragraph has crept into the papers about
our discovery, and it is discredited. One paper heads it ‘A Seaman’s
Yarn.’ I suppose some of the men have been talking about it on shore.”
“Suppose so. One o’ them chaps from the newspapers came aboard yesterday
and began asking all about it, but I blessed him for his
inquisitiveness, and sent him about his business. What the dickens has
it to do with him?”
“Quite right,” I said approvingly. “We ought to keep our knowledge to
ourselves. People can believe or disbelieve, just as they like. If,
however, they saw those bags of gold at the bank, I fancy it would
convince them.”
“Or if they saw Old Mister Mystery with his red velvet jacket and
sword,” he laughed. “Lor’, doctor, I’ll never forget the funny figure
that chap cut when we hauled him out. He was real scared at first,
wasn’t he?”
His words brought back to my memory that never-to-be-forgotten evening
of our discovery. The mystery of how the cumbersome old vessel had got
afloat again was not one of the least connected with it.
The reason of my visit was to tell him the result of my inquiries and
the neat manner in which we had been foiled. Therefore, after some
preliminaries, I explained to him all that I have set down in the
previous chapter. He heard me through, blowing vigorously at his pipe
and grunting, as was his habit. The amount of smoke his pipe emitted was
an index to his thoughts. If pleased, his pipe burned slowly, the smoke
rising in a tiny thin column; but if the contrary, the smoke came forth
from pipe and mouth in clouds. The cabin was now so full that I could
scarcely see across it, and when I arrived at the critical point and
told him how I had been forestalled, he jumped up, exclaiming—
“The son of a gun! He actually sold it for ’arf a quid!”
“He has,” I answered sadly. “If we could only get it back it might be
the means of bringing wealth to all of us.”
“Then you really believe in all this yarn what’s written in the
parchments, doctor?” he asked.
“How can I do otherwise?” I said. “There are signatures and seals.
Besides, I have, I think, sufficiently proved that Bartholomew da
Schorno, whoever he was, lived once at Caldecott Manor, and further,
that the Knuttons were owners of the Manor Farm. You must remember, too,
that Mr. Staffurth is an expert, and not likely to mislead us.”
“Well, doctor,” he said, “the whole thing makes a queer yarn, an’ that’s
a fact. Sometimes I almost feel as though the overhauling of Noah’s Ark
was a dream, only you see we’ve already got about a thousand quid to go
shares in. Now, what I’ve been thinkin’, doctor, is that you’ll want a
fair understandin’ if you’re goin’ to follow this thing up. I’ll be
away, and shall have to leave it all in your hands. Now, I’m a
plain-spoken man—that you know. For my own part, I’m content with the
thousand quid we hauled aboard, and if you like to forego your claim to
the half of it, I’ll forego my claim to whatever you may find ashore.
Forgive me for speakin’ plain, doctor, won’t you?—for it’s no good
a-beating about the bush.”
“Well,” I said, “if you are ready to accept such an agreement, I also am
ready, although I think, captain, that you may be doing an injustice to
yourself.”
But Job Seal did not see it in that light. He was a hard-headed British
skipper, and regarded a safe thousand pounds better than an imaginary
million. For that nobody could blame him. On the one hand I felt regret
at giving up my share of the gold, but on the other it left me open to
share the treasure, if found, with the unknown descendant of the
Wollertons.
So we drew out together an agreement by which I relinquished all claim
to the gold in the bank, and he, on his part, withdrew any claim upon
any treasure discovered by means of the parchments found on board the
_Seahorse_.
I could see that after I had signed the paper Job Seal was greatly
relieved. He was but human, not avaricious, he declared, but urged to
the suggestion by the knowledge that he must be absent, and would be
unable to assist in the search ashore.
And it so happened that for five hundred pounds I bought out my friend
the skipper. Who had the best of the bargain will be seen later in this
curious chapter of exciting events.
I wrote an order to the bank to deliver up the gold at Seal’s order at
any time, and after a final drink shook hands and left.
“I may be over to see you before we sail, doctor,” were his parting
words; “but if not, you’ll see me, all being well, back in London in
about five weeks. Good-bye,” he said, heartily gripping my hand; “and
good luck to you in your search.”
At home in Chelsea I sat calmly reflecting, smoking the while and lazily
turning over the leaves of the old fifteenth-century manuscripts, the
_Decretales Summa_, the _Trithemius_, and others that I had found with
the documents on board the _Seahorse_. They were evidently Bartholomew
da Schorno’s favourite reading, which showed that though he might have
been a fierce sea-dog he was nevertheless a studious man, who preferred
the old writers in their ancient manuscripts to the printed editions.
They smelt musty now, but showed how well and diligently they had been
studied. He must have been a devout Catholic, surely, to have studied
the _Decretales_ of the Friar Henry so assiduously. It was his property,
for on the last leaf of vellum, in faded ink, was written his name:
“Bartholomew da Schorno, Cavaliere di Santo Stefano, Maggio 5, 1579.”
I tried to conjure up what manner of man he was. Probably that giant in
stature whose skeleton had laid heaped in the big saloon of the
_Seahorse_. If so, he had surely been a magnificent successor to the
Crusaders of olden days—a powerful friend and a formidable foe. The
latter he must certainly have been to tackle and capture one of the
Spanish galleons sent against England. But probably no ships ever saw
such fierce and sanguinary frays as those of the Knights of St. Stephen.
Every man on board was a picked fighter, and against them even the
dreaded power of the Barbary pirates was insufficient, for the latter
were gradually crushed, not, however, without enormous bloodshed on both
sides.
The power of the Corsairs at one time was so great that they constantly
landed at points along what is now known as the Corniche road, between
the Var mouth and Genoa, and took whole villages captive, sacking and
burning the houses, and laying desolate great tracts of country.
Thousands of Christians were carried into slavery to North Africa, and a
veritable reign of terror existed along the Mediterranean shore.
It took nearly a hundred years for the Knights of St. Stephen to crush
the robbers, but they did so, owing to their indomitable pluck and hard
and relentless fighting.
I recollected the old Elizabethan portrait of the hard-faced man that
hung upon the panelled wall, but could not believe that that was a
picture of old Bartholomew. No, I pictured him as a merry, round-faced,
easy-going type, tall to notoriety, a giant in strength, a very demon in
war, and a clever and ingenious administrator where his own personal
affairs were concerned.
His independence in his quarrel with the Duke of Ferrara was shown by
the manner in which he sold his estates and shook the dust of the
province from his feet, and his religious fervour by the fact that
although a wealthy man he braved the perils of the sea and of the fight
to aid and release the Christian slaves.
I could only think of him as a grand type of the past, a dandy in dress,
and even in armour, a patrician in his food, and a sad dog where women
were concerned. He was Italian by birth, so it was to be presumed that
he loved easily, and forgot with similar facility.
But reverie would not uplift the veil of mystery that surrounded the
present situation.
Now I, like you, my reader, had read all sorts of stories about hidden
treasure, mostly imaginary, and all in more or less degree exciting.
Treasure exists, it seems, mostly on islands the exact latitude and
longitude of which is a secret, or else in caves in Guatemala or beneath
the earth in Mexico—all far afield. But here I had tangible proof of a
treasure deposited in rural England in the days of Good Queen Bess at
some spot between the port of Yarmouth and the village of Caldecott.
Therefore, if you had been in my place, would you not have searched for
that mysterious Mr. Purvis who bought the missing document from a
half-drunken labourer for half a sovereign?
I carefully reviewed the situation, and after due consideration could
only hope for one thing—namely, that the purchaser of that parchment,
finding it useless to him, might sell it to one or other of the London
booksellers who deal in manuscripts—Quaritch, Maggs, Tregaskis, Bumpas,
Dobell, and the others. The market for such things as codexes and
interesting documents on vellum is limited, and in the hands of very few
dealers; therefore, I later on wrote a letter to all of them from the
list given me by Mr. Staffurth, saying that, if any document answering
to the description which I gave should be offered for sale, they were
commissioned to purchase it at any price up to fifty pounds.
This was, I thought, a step in the right direction. Mr. Purvis, when he
found that the document he had purchased was useless, would probably
dispose of it at a profit, and if he did so through any of the
recognized channels, it must certainly fall into my hands.
Job Seal did not call, but three days later I received a much-smeared
post-card, sent from Cardiff, regretting that he had not been able to
wish me good-bye as he had intended. He ended by an inquiry after Old
Mister Mystery, and asking me to send any important news to him at the
Poste Restante at Leghorn.
A fortnight went by. I went one day to Ealing to see the Mysterious Man,
but he was just the same, and knew me not. The weather was still hot in
London, those blazing days when the very pavements seem aglow, but old
Mr. Staffurth, whenever I called upon him, still sat in his back parlour
poring over the codexes and valuable manuscripts submitted to him. Often
I consulted him, but, like me, he could see no way by which we could
advance farther. Things were at an absolute deadlock.
I believe that he rather blamed me for my settlement with Seal, feeling
that, after all, the continued existence of the treasure was still
uncertain, for it might have been discovered and carried away years ago.
Still, towards me he was always the same courteous, low-spoken, if
dry-as-dust old gentleman.
I went ever in search of the man who called himself Purvis, but although
there were many persons of that name in the _London Directory_ I was
unable to discover the identical one who had tempted the drunken
labourer with half a sovereign.
After three weeks of going hither and thither it became necessary to
reflect upon matters more material, and, compelled to work at my
profession for a living, I became _locum tenens_ for a doctor who had a
dispensary in the Walworth Road, near Camberwell Gate. Probably that
part of London is well known to you, the great wide thoroughfare that is
one of the main arteries of South London, but dull, grey, and
overcrowded; a depressing place for a man who like myself had so
recently come from weeks of the open sea and sunshine.
I still bore the bronze of the sun and salt upon my cheeks, according to
the remarks of my friends, but although well in health and with an
appetite like the proverbial horse, my mind was full of the mystery of
the _Seahorse_ and the ingenious purchase of the missing parchment.
The practice in the Walworth Road was a big and a poor one. The majority
of the patients were hoarse-voiced costermongers from East Street and
its purlieus, seamstresses, labourers, and factory hands. There is
nothing mean in “the Road” itself, as it is called in the neighbourhood,
but alas! many of the streets that run off it towards the Old Kent Road
are full of squalid poverty.
It was not my duty to be at the dispensary at night, the night calls
being attended to by a medical friend of the man whose practice I was
taking charge of; therefore at ten o’clock each night the boy closed the
door, put out the red light, and I took the omnibus for Chelsea.
One night just as the last patient, a garrulous old man with gout, had
taken his departure and the cheap American timepiece on the mantelshelf
was chiming ten, the signal for Siddons, the boy, to turn off the gas in
the red lamp, I heard voices in the shop that had been turned into a
waiting-room. It was after hours, and Siddons had his orders, therefore
I did not anticipate that he would disobey them. But he did, for he
entered, saying:—
“There’s a lady just come, sir. Must see you, sir—very urgent, she
says.”
“Do you know her?”
“No, sir—stranger,” replied the sharp Cockney youth.
I groaned within myself, and announced my readiness to see her. She
entered, and as she did so and our eyes met I rose to my feet,
open-mouthed, utterly dumb.
CHAPTER XIII
A CALL, AND ITS CONSEQUENCE
MY visitor evidently noticed my stupefaction. She must have done, or she
would not have been a woman.
The reason of my sudden surprise was not because I recognized her, but
on account of her perfect and amazing beauty. Every doctor sees some
pretty faces in the course of practise, but having been asked to set
down the chief details of this romance, I must here confess that never
in all my life had I set eyes upon such a sweet and charming
countenance.
I judged her to be about twenty, and the manner in which she entered the
dingy consulting-room that reeked with the pungent odour of iodoform
showed that, although not well dressed, she was nevertheless modest and
well bred. She wore a plain, black tailor-made skirt, a trifle the worse
for wear, a white cotton blouse, a small black hat, and black gloves.
But her face held me fascinated; I could not take my eyes off it. It was
oval, regular, with beautifully-moulded cheeks, a small, well-formed
mouth, and fine arched brows, while the eyes, dark and sparkling, looked
out at me half in wonder, half in fear. Hers was a kind of half-tragic
beauty, a face intensely sweet in its expression, yet with a distinct
touch of sadness in its composition, as though her heart were burdened
by some secret.
This latter fact seemed patent to me from the very first instant of our
meeting.
“Is Dr. Whitworth in?” she inquired, in a soft, rather musical voice,
when I bowed and indicated a chair.
“No,” I responded, “he’s not. My name is Pickering, and I am acting for
the doctor, who is away on a holiday.”
“Oh!” she ejaculated, and I thought I detected that her jaw dropped
slightly, as though she were disappointed. “Will Dr. Whitworth be away
long?”
“Another fortnight, I believe. He is not very well, and has gone to
Cornwall. Are you one of his patients? If so, I shall be delighted to do
what I can for you.”
“No,” she responded; “but my brother is, and, being taken worse, wanted
to consult him.”
“I shall be very pleased to see him, if you think he would care for it,”
I said rather eagerly, I believe, if the truth were told.
She seemed undecided. When a person is in the habit of being attended by
one medical man, a fresh one is always at a disadvantage. People have
such faith in their “own doctor,” a faith that is almost a religion,
often misplaced, and sometimes fatal. The old-fashioned family doctor
with his out-of-date methods, his white waistcoat, and his cultivated
gravity still flourishes, even in these enlightened days of serums and
light cures. And in order to impress their patients, they sometimes
prescribe unheard of medicines that are not to be found even in
“Squire.”
“Dr. Whitworth has attended my brother for several years, and has taken
a great interest in his case,” she said reflectively.
“What is his ailment?” I inquired.
“An internal one. All the doctors he has seen appear to disagree as to
its actual cause. He suffers great pain at times. It is because he is
worse that I have come here.”
“Perhaps I can prescribe something to relieve it,” I suggested. “Would
you like me to see him? I am entirely at your disposal.”
“You are extremely kind, doctor,” she replied. “But we live rather a
long way off, and I am afraid at this time of night——”
“Oh, the hour is nothing, I assure you,” I laughed, interrupting her.
“If I can do anything to make your brother more comfortable, I’ll do
so.”
She was still undecided. Somehow I could not help thinking that she
regarded me with a strange fixed look—a glance which indeed surprised
me. Having regard to the strange _dénouement_ of the interview, I now
recollect every detail of it, and can follow accurately the working of
her mind.
“Well,” she said at last, rather reluctantly it seemed, “if you are
quite sure the distance is not too far, it would be most kind of you to
come. I’m sure you could give Frank something to allay his pain. We live
at Dartmouth Hill, Blackheath.”
“Oh, that’s not so very far,” I exclaimed, eager to be her companion. “A
cab will soon take us there.”
“Dr. Whitworth usually comes over to visit my brother once a week—every
Thursday. Did he tell you nothing of his case?”
“No. Probably he considers him a private patient, while I am left in
charge of the poorer people who come to the dispensary.”
“Ah! I understand,” she said, drawing the black boa tighter around her
throat, as though ready for departure.
I made some inquiries regarding the region where her brother’s pain was
situated, and, placing a morphia case and bottles of various narcotics
in my well-worn black bag, put on my hat and announced my readiness to
accompany her.
As I turned again to her I could not fail to notice that the colour in
her face a moment before had all gone out of it. She was ashen pale,
almost to the lips. The change in her had been sudden, and I saw that as
she stood she gripped the back of her chair, swaying to and fro as
though every moment she might collapse in a faint.
“You are unwell,” I said quickly.
“A—a little faintness. That is all,” she gasped.
Without a moment’s delay I got her seated, and rushing into the
dispensary obtained restoratives, which in a few minutes brought her
back to her former self.
“How foolish!” she remarked, as though disgusted with herself. “Forgive
me, doctor; I suppose it is because I have been up two nights with my
brother and am tired out.”
“Of course; that accounts for it. You have over-taxed your strength.
Have you no one who can take your place?”
“No,” she responded, with a strange sadness which seemed an index to her
character; “I have, unfortunately, no one. Frank is rather irritable,
and will have nobody about him except myself.”
Brother and sister appeared devoted to each other.
She spoke of him in a tone betraying that deep fraternal affection which
nowadays is not common.
I waited while the boy Siddons closed the surgery and put out the
lights, and then, having locked the outer door, we walked together to
the cab-stand at the top of Beresford Street and entered a hansom,
giving directions to drive to Blackheath.
The man seemed rather surprised at such an order at such an hour, but
nevertheless, nothing loth to take a fare outside the radius, he whipped
up, and drove straight down the Boyson Road, through into Albany Road,
one of the decayed relics of bygone Camberwell when the suburb was
fashionable in the days of George the Third, and on into that straight,
never-ending thoroughfare, the Old Kent Road.
Seated side by side our conversation naturally turned upon
conversational subjects, and presently she remarked upon the great heat
of the day just closed, whereupon I told her how oppressed I had been by
it, because of my recent voyage where the sea breeze was always fresh
and the spray combined with the brilliant sunshine.
“Ah!” she sighed, “I would so much like to go abroad. I’ve never been
farther than Paris, and, after all, that’s so much like London. I would
dearly like a voyage up the Mediterranean. The ports you put into must
have been a perfect panorama of the various phases of life.”
“Yes,” I said, “the Italian is so different from the Syrian, the Syrian
from the African, and the African from the Spanish. It is all so fresh
and new. You would be charmed with it. The only disagreeable part is the
return to hot and overcrowded London.”
“Myself, I hate London,” was her remark. “The fresh open country always
appeals to me, and Blackheath, you know, is better than nothing at all.”
I had to confess that I was not acquainted with Blackheath. Apart from
my term at the hospital and a year or two doing _locum tenens_ work in
London I knew more of the country than of the Metropolis. Unless one is
a London-born man one never knows and never in his heart loves London.
He may delight in its attractions, its social advantages, and its
pecuniary possibilities, but at heart he shudders at the greyness of its
streets, the grime of the houses, and the hustling, whirling, selfish
crowds. To the man country-born, be he peer or commoner, London is
always intolerable for any length of time; he sighs for the open air,
the green of Nature, the gay songs of the birds, and the freedom of
everything. Unfortunately, however, the country is not fashionable, save
in autumn for shooting and in winter for hunting, even though the London
season may be, to the great majority, an ordeal only to be borne in
order to sustain the social status.
I ask of you, my readers—who perhaps work in the City and go to and
from the suburbs with clock-work regularity—whether you would not be
prepared to accept a lower wage if you could carry on that same
profession in the country and live in a house with a real garden instead
of one of a row of jerry-built “desirable residences” so crowded
together that what was once a healthy and splendid suburb is nowadays as
cramped as any street in Central London? You know your house, a place
that was run up in six weeks by a speculative builder; you know your
garden, a dried-up, stony strip of back yard, where even the wallflowers
have a difficulty in taking root; you know your daily scramble to get
into a train for the City—nay, the hard fight to keep a roof over your
head and the vulpine animal from the door. Yes, you would move into the
country if you only could, for your wife and children would then be
strong and well, instead of always sickly and ailing. But what is the
use of moralizing? There is no work for you in the country, so you are
one of millions of victims who, like yourself, are compelled to stifle
and scramble in London, or to starve.
All this we discussed quite philosophically as we rode together through
that hot summer’s night, first past shops and barrows where lights still
burned, and then away down the broad road, dark save for the long row of
street-lamps stretching away into the distance.
I found her a bright and interesting companion. She seemed of a rather
reflective turn of mind, but through all her conversation ran that vein
of sadness which from the first had impressed itself upon me. From what
she led me to believe, her brother and she were in rather straitened
circumstances, owing to the former’s long illness. He had been head
cashier with a firm in Cannon Street, but had been compelled to resign
three years ago and had not earned a penny since. I wondered whether she
worked at something, typewriting or millinery, in order to assist the
household, but she told me nothing and I did not presume to ask.
It is enough to say that I found myself charmed by her, even on this
first acquaintance. Although so modest and engaging, she seemed to
possess wonderful tact. But after all, now that I reflect, tact is in
the fair sex inborn, and it takes a clever man to outwit a woman when
she is bent upon accomplishing an object.
She told me very little about herself. In fact, now I recall the curious
circumstances, I see that she purposely refrained from doing so. To my
leading questions she responded so naïvely that I was entirely misled.
How is it, I wonder, that every man of every age will run his head
against a wall for the sake of a pretty woman? Given a face out of the
ordinary rut of English beauty, a woman in London can command anything,
no matter what her station. It has always been so the whole world over,
even from the old days of Troy and Rome—a fair face rules the roost.
We had crossed a bridge over a canal—Deptford Bridge I think it is
called—and began to ascend a long hill which she told me led on to
Blackheath. She had grown of a sudden thoughtful, making few responses
to my observations. Perhaps I had presumed too much, I thought; perhaps
I had made some injudicious inquiry which annoyed her. But she was so
charming, so sweet of temperament, and so bright in conversation, that
my natural desire to know all about her had led me into being a trifle
more inquisitive than the circumstances warranted.
“Doctor,” she exclaimed suddenly, in a strange voice; “I hope you will
not take as an offence what I am about to say,” and as she turned to me
the light of a street lamp flashing full on her face revealed to me how
white and anxious it had suddenly become.
“Certainly not,” I answered, not without surprise.
“Well, I have reconsidered my decision, and I think that in the
circumstances you had better not see my brother, after all.”
“Not see your brother!” I exclaimed, surprised.
“No. I—I’m awfully sorry to have brought you out here so far, but if
you will allow me to get out I can walk home and you can drive back.”
“Certainly not,” I answered. “Now I’m so close to your house I’ll see
your brother. I can no doubt relieve his pain, and for that he would
probably be thankful.”
“No,” she said, involuntarily laying her hand upon my sleeve, “I cannot
allow you to accompany me farther;” and I felt her hand tremble.
Surely there is no accounting for the working of a woman’s mind, but I
certainly believed her to be devoid of any such caprice as this.
I argued with her that if her brother were in pain it was only right
that I should do what I could to relieve him. But she firmly shook her
head.
“Forgive me, doctor,” she urged anxiously. “I know you must think me
absurdly whimsical, but this decision is not the outcome of any mere
whim, I assure you. I have a reason why I absolutely insist upon us
parting here.”
“Well, of course, if you really deny me the privilege of accompanying
you as far as your house I can do nothing but submit,” I said very
disappointedly. “I shall tell Dr. Whitworth of your call. What name
shall I give him?”
“Miss Bristowe.”
“And are you quite determined that I shall go no farther?” I asked
earnestly.
“Quite.”
I saw some hidden reason in this decision, but what it was I failed to
make out. She was certainly most determined, and, further, she seemed to
have been suddenly filled with an unusual excitement, betrayed in her
white, almost haggard, face.
So I stopped the cab at last, just as we reached the dark Heath.
“I must say that I am very disappointed at this abrupt ending to our
brief acquaintanceship,” I said, taking her hand and helping her out.
“Ah! doctor,” she sighed. Then, in a voice full of strange meaning, she
added: “Perhaps one day you will learn the real reason of this decision.
I thank you very much for accompanying me so far. Good-night.”
She allowed her hand to rest in mine for a moment; then turned and was
lost in the darkness, leaving me standing beside the cab.
CHAPTER XIV
REQUIRES EXPLANATION
THE pretty Miss Bristowe was certainly an enigma.
In that dingy consulting-room in the Walworth Road I often sat during
the days that followed, musing over that curious and fruitless journey.
I felt rather piqued than disappointed, for to put it bluntly I had been
fooled, and left to pay nearly a sovereign to a cabman.
Her parting words to me: “Perhaps one day you will learn the real reason
of this decision,” seemed ominous ones, while her agitation was strange
in such circumstances. She parted from me so hastily that it seemed
almost as though she held me in fear. But why? I am sure I acted towards
her with all the gallantry in my rather rough nature. No; the more I
thought over it the more remarkable seemed the incident.
But a few days later I discovered yet a stranger circumstance. In order
to find out something regarding my pretty companion on that long cab
drive, I wrote to Dr. Whitworth at Bude, telling him that she had
called, and inquiring the nature of her brother’s complaint. To this I
received a brief note saying that he had never heard of “Miss Bristowe”
in his life.
Then the truth was rudely forced upon me that the woman who had held me
fascinated by her beauty was actually an impostor.
What, however, could have been her object in inducing me to accompany
her upon such a vain errand? Doctors see some queer things and meet with
strange adventures in the course of their practice, but surely her
motive in fooling me was utterly unintelligible.
Through the remaining fortnight I continued to treat the crowd of poor
suffering humanity that seemed to greet me ever in the waiting-room; for
Whitworth was a kindly man, hence all the poor came to him. Night after
night I sat listening to the ills of costermongers and their wives,
labourers, factory hands, cabmen, tram-men, and all that hard-working
class that makes up lower London “over the water.” Sometimes they told
me their symptoms with quaint directness, using scientific terms wrongly
or atrociously pronounced—the result of School Board education in
elementary physiology, I suppose. But, as in every neighbourhood of that
class, drink was accountable for, or aggravated, at least two-thirds of
the cases that I saw. Surely it would open the eyes of the social
reformer or the temperance advocate if he spent one evening in the
consulting-room of a dispensary in lower London.
At last Whitworth returned, fresh and bronzed, from the Cornish coast,
and as I sat handing back to him the keys of the place and receiving a
cheque for my services, I mentioned the subject of Miss Bristowe.
“Ah!” he laughed, “what did you mean by that letter? I don’t know any
such person, nor even anyone who lives at Blackheath.”
“And she said that you had attended her brother for nearly two years for
some internal ailment. She came here one night to fetch you. I told her
you were away, and after some persuasion she allowed me to accompany
her. Then, when we got to Blackheath, she suddenly changed her mind and
sent me back.”
“You never saw the brother?”
“Never went to the house. She wouldn’t let me.”
“But you yourself suggested going with her, you say?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I did.”
“Pretty?”
“Very much so.”
“And you were struck with her, eh?” he laughed, for he was a prosaic
married man with a couple of children.
“Just a trifle,” I admitted.
“Well,” he said, “the girl possibly saw that you were gone on her, so
she had a lark with you. You paid her cab home, and she had no
objection.”
“But her story was so plausible.”
“Every woman can be plausible when she pleases,” he said. “But are you
sure she asked for me?”
“Quite certain. She first inquired for you, telling me that you were an
old friend.”
He laughed heartily at what he termed the woman’s audacity; then, after
some further discussion of the subject, we dropped it as one of those
little mysteries of life that are beyond solution.
On relinquishing my position at the dispensary I wandered heedlessly
hither and thither in London. The weather was still hot, more oppressive
even than I had felt it at Naples or at Leghorn, and all seemed dull
because my friends were away in the country or at the seaside. Through
the _Lancet_ I was offered a three months’ engagement as assistant to a
doctor in Northumberland, but I declined it, as it was too far from
London. Somehow I felt it necessary, for the elucidation of the mystery
of the _Seahorse_, to remain in town—why I cannot tell.
One day in response to a note, I called upon Macfarlane, the specialist
in lunacy, and found him seated in his consulting-room, a fine apartment
furnished in old oak, of which he was an ardent collector, and
surrounded by a number of fine old clocks of various periods.
“Well, Pickering,” he exclaimed cheerily, rising to greet me, “I’ve got
some news for you about your—what shall we call him—foundling, eh?”
“That’s a good description,” I laughed. “Captain Seal used to call him
‘Old Mister Mystery.’ But what is the news?”
“Well, he’s taken a decided turn for the better. I see him every day,
and although at first he was bitterly hostile towards me because I
wouldn’t allow him to wear his sword, he has now become quite mild and
tractable. And what’s more, he’s taken to writing, which is one of the
best signs of impending recovery that we could have. Here are some of
his efforts,” he added, taking from a drawer a quantity of scraps of
paper, from half-sheets of foolscap to bits torn from newspapers, and
placing them before me. “I don’t suppose you can make anything more out
of them than I can. His brain is clearing, but is not yet rightly
balanced. Now and then his ideas run in the direction of a design made
up of creepy-looking demons and imps. There’s no doubt about it, that
whoever he is, he’s a man of some talent. Did you see what was in the
_Telegraph_ the other day?”
“I saw a distorted story about the _Seahorse_,” I answered.
“But on the following day there was a short statement regarding this
nameless patient of ours. They sent a reporter to me to obtain further
details, but I did not consider myself justified in giving them. The
less the public knows about the affair the better—that’s my opinion.”
“Certainly,” I said. “I’m very glad you did not allow yourself to be
interviewed.”
Then I turned myself to the uneven scribble, mostly in pencil, which had
been executed by the lunatic. My hopes were quickly dashed, for I found
it poor stuff. Sometimes it appeared as though he wished to write a
letter, for there were the preliminary words, “Dear sister,” “Dear
Harry,” and “My dear sir.” Once he started to write a nautical song,
whether of his own composition or not I am unaware. The lines, written
quite distinctly, although in a shaky old-fashioned hand, were:—
There’s nothing like rum on a windy night,
Sing hey, my lads, sing hey!
When the rigging howls and you’re battened tight,
Yo ho! my lads, Yo ho!
On a dirty piece of newspaper was written: “Jimmy Jobson, 1st mate, went
to Davy Jones’s locker May 16.” Another bore the statement: “Pugfaced
Willie ought to have been a tub-thumper instead of sailing under the
black flag. That is Andy Anderson’s opinion.”
The last piece I examined was half a sheet of note-paper bearing the
heading, “High Elms,” the paper given to patients for their
correspondence. It was covered with scribble, just as a child scribbles
before it can write, but in a small blank space near the bottom were the
strange words: “Beware of Black Bennett! He means mischief!”
The latter had been written as a warning, but to whom addressed it was
impossible to tell.
“All are, of course, the wanderings of the patient’s mind,” remarked
Macfarlane. “Those names may possibly help us to establish his
identity.”
“Have you determined his age?”
“Not more than seventy, if as much,” was the reply. “But I feel certain
that he’ll recover, if not at once, within, say, a year. This writing is
a very hopeful sign. Of course, I can’t say that he’ll recover his
speech too—probably he won’t. But he can write, and by that means tell
us something of how he came on board the ancient ship.”
I remained with the great specialist for half an hour longer, then
taking possession of the curious evidence of the old fellow’s returning
sanity I went back to Chelsea.
Time after time I examined that strange warning regarding “Black
Bennett.” Who could he be?
There was one remark about the black flag, which meant piracy. Possibly,
then, this man Bennett had been a pirate at some time or other.
Anyhow, I was greatly gratified to think that ere long the Mysterious
Man might be able to give us an intelligible account of himself, and
although the meaning of the warning regarding “Black Bennett” was an
enigma, I quickly forgot all about it.
The one point upon which all my energies were concentrated was the
recovery of that cryptic document which the drunken old labourer at
Rockingham had disposed of. I called at all the chief dealers in
manuscripts in London and made inquiry if anything like the parchment I
described had been offered for sale, but was informed that
sixteenth-century parchments of that character were too common to be of
sufficient value for them to consider. Codexes or charters of any
century down to the fifteenth would always be looked at, but a notarial
deed of so late a date as the end of the sixteenth century was beneath
the notice of any of the dealers.
Early one morning I received a telegram from Mr. Staffurth, and, in
response, went to Clapham Park Road in hot haste.
I found, to my surprise, a strange, black-bearded man in his study, and
the old gentleman was greatly excited and alarmed. A pane of glass in
the window was, I noticed, missing, and it was accounted for by his
breathless statement that during the night his house had been broken
into by burglars.
The black-bearded man, who was a detective, chimed in, saying:—
“It seems, sir, as though they were after some of the valuable books the
gentleman has. They didn’t go further into the house than this room,
although the door was unlocked.”
“You see what they’ve done, doctor—cut out a pane of glass, opened the
window, forced the shutters, and got in. Look at the place! They’ve
turned everything topsy-turvy!”
They certainly had, for papers and books were strewn all over the floor.
“Have you missed anything?” I asked quickly.
“One thing only. It is, I regret to say, that parchment deed of yours
with the seven signatures. They’ve taken nothing else but that, although
here, as you see, is an illuminated _Horæ_ worth at least £300, and the
twelfth-century St. Bernardus that Quaritch bid £200 for at Sotheby’s
last week.”
“They were expert thieves,” the detective remarked, “and were evidently
in search of something which they knew the gentleman had in his
possession.”
“But the book—the book containing the cipher!” I cried, dismayed, the
truth dawning upon me that the burglars had been in search of those
documents of mine.
“Fortunately, they were unable to secure it,” was old Mr. Staffurth’s
reply. “I had locked it in the safe here as a precaution against its
destruction by fire.” And he indicated the good-sized safe that stood in
the opposite corner of the room. “You see upon it marks of their
desperate efforts to open it, but with all their drills, chisels,
wedges, and such-like things they were not successful. The secret of the
cipher is still ours.”
“Then they were hired burglars?” I said.
“That seems most probable, sir,” replied the detective. “Such a thing is
not by any means unusual. They were professionals at the game, whoever
they were.”
CHAPTER XV
REVEALS SOMETHING OF IMPORTANCE
THE thieves had made a thorough search of old Mr. Staffurth’s study.
Every hole and corner had been methodically examined, an operation which
must have occupied considerable time.
Neither Mr. Staffurth, his housekeeper, nor the servant girl had heard a
sound. It seemed that only after searching the study thoroughly had the
burglars turned their attention to the safe. There were three of them,
the detective asserted, for there had been a shower in the night, and he
found on the carpet distinct marks of muddy shoes. The instruments they
had used on the safe were of the newest kind, and it seemed a mystery
why they had not succeeded in opening it.
Having discovered the parchment with the seven signatures, they most
naturally searched for the other documents found on board the derelict.
Fortunately, however, the book penned by the noble Bartholomew remained
in its place of security.
Of course this desperate attempt to gain possession of it removed all
doubt that there was some one else besides myself endeavouring to solve
the secret. But who could it be? Who could possibly know what was
written upon those dry old parchments save Job Seal, Mr. Staffurth and
myself? Seal was an honest man, quite content with the share of the
spoil already in his hands, while it was to the interest of the old
palæographist to solve the mystery in conjunction with myself.
Did the hoard of the sea-rover still exist?
Hundreds of times I put to myself that question. For answer I could only
reflect that there was some one else, an unknown rival, who believed
that it did, and who was sparing no effort to obtain the secret of its
hiding-place.
Of course, it was quite possible that when the place of concealment was
discovered it might be empty. Over three hundred years had passed, and
in that time accident might have led to its discovery. There had
certainly not been any betrayal of the secret, for while one cryptic
document had been in the hands of the Knuttons, the key to it had been
afloat, or submerged beneath the sea.
I took Mr. Staffurth aside, and we agreed to tell the police as little
as possible, lest the facts should leak out to the newspapers. Therefore
the old expert explained that the parchment books in his possession were
precious ones, and most probably the thieves desired to obtain
possession of them on behalf of some other person. So the detective,
with an assistant, made copious notes, examined the marks of chisels and
jemmies, and after a great show of investigation left the house.
“Ah, doctor,” exclaimed the old man with a sigh of relief, after they
had gone; “I had no idea that our rivals were so close upon us. I think
you had better deposit that book in your bank for greater security. The
scoundrels, whoever they were, may pay me another visit.”
I expressed regret that he should thus have suffered on my account, but
the poor old gentleman only laughed, saying, “My dear doctor, how could
you help it? They want to get hold of the key to their cipher. Possibly,
in their document, it is stated that there is a key to it in existence.”
“But how could they be aware that it is in your possession?”
“Because you are undoubtedly watched,” he said. “I shouldn’t wonder but
what every movement of yours is known to your rivals.”
“Well,” I laughed, “fortune-hunting seems an exciting game.”
“Mind that it doesn’t grow dangerous,” was the old man’s ominous
warning.
“But you don’t anticipate any personal violence, do you?”
“I think it is wise to be very careful,” he said. “You have a secret
rival in these investigations of yours, and where a fortune is concerned
some people are not over-scrupulous. We have here an illustration of
their desperate efforts—the employment of professional burglars.”
“But if even we found the Italian’s hoard, would it not belong to the
Wollertons?”
“I suppose it would. But,” smiled the man, “if we could not discover any
Wollerton, and held the property for ourselves, I think our position
would practically be impregnable.”
“The Government might claim it.”
“No. It would not be treasure-trove. We have all the facts concerning it
in our possession. It would not be a hoard accidentally discovered and
without owner. One-third of it, remember, has to go to a Knutton.”
“Yes, to that drunken fool down at Rockingham. He deserves, at any rate,
to lose his portion,” I said.
Mr. Staffurth brought forth the old parchment-book from the safe, and
opening it at a place marked with a slip of paper, re-examined the
straight row of cipher letters with their equivalents, while I rose and
looked over his shoulder.
“The writer was a careful and methodical man, even though he might have
been a fierce and blood-thirsty sea-rover, and a terror to the
slave-raiders. He certainly took the very best precaution possible so
that the secret of the whereabouts of his hoard should not be
discovered, for, as you see, the document left in the hands of the
Knuttons was useless without this book, and the book useless without the
document. It was evidently his intention to return to England and
deposit the book in some place of safety, but before he did so disaster
befell the _Seahorse_, and she went down.”
Together we packed the book in brown paper, tied it with string, and
securely sealed it, using the seal upon my watch guard, and that same
afternoon I deposited it with the bank manager, receiving a receipt for
it.
But before leaving old Mr. Staffurth I assisted him to put his books in
order, and we chatted together the while.
It was his opinion that if I went to Rockingham again I might obtain
some news of the movements of the man Purvis. Indeed, he was in favour
of my making a short visit there in order, if possible, to ascertain the
identity of any person making inquiries.
“You see,” he said, “we are working quite in the dark. Our rivals know
us, but we do not know them. That places us at a distinct disadvantage.
If we knew them we might outwit them.”
I saw the force of his argument. He was a man of sound common sense, and
never gave an opinion without careful consideration. It certainly seemed
quite feasible that our rivals might be down at Rockingham or Caldecott.
“Do you think it worth while to rent the Manor House from the Kenways?”
I suggested. “They are only too anxious to get out.”
“Is the rent high?”
“About fifty pounds a year.”
“Well, doctor,” responded the old gentleman, “I certainly think that the
affair is worth spending fifty pounds upon. You see, you’ve bought
Captain Seal out of it, and the matter is now practically your own
affair. Besides, if you rented the Manor you would keep out your rivals.
Yes. Most decidedly; go down and take the place for a year.”
“Not a very desirable place of residence,” I laughed.
“I know. But be careful these other people don’t again forestall you. Go
down there to-morrow and make the bargain at once. The old place may
contain the treasure, or it may not. In any case, no harm will be done
by your being the tenant for a year.”
Thus it was that in the blaze of the noontide sun I next day passed up
the little main street of Caldecott, traversed the somewhat odorous
farm-yard, and entered the silent, moss-grown court of the Manor House.
A fair-haired slip of a girl came to the door in response to my ring,
and after a little while Mrs. Kenway, who had gone to put herself tidy
to receive visitors, entered the dining-room—that room which contained
my pet abomination, furniture covered with brown American cloth.
The good woman seemed quite pleased to see me again. Her husband was out
on his round, she said, but nevertheless she offered me the simple
hospitality of a glass of milk.
“Well, Mrs. Kenway,” I commenced, after I had grown a little cool, “I’ve
come on an errand which I dare say will give you some gratification.
When I was here some time ago you told me you wished to sub-let your
house. I have spoken to my friend about it, and he has sent me to take
it on his behalf. I forget exactly the rent you named.”
“Well, sir,” responded the woman, “funnily enough I’m in treaty with a
gentleman who wants to take the place. I promised to make no arrangement
until I heard from him.”
“Who is he?” I asked, quickly. “What is his name?”
“I forget, sir, but I have it written on an envelope upstairs. I’ll go
and get it.” And she left the room.
I determined to take the place at all hazards. I was by no means a rich
man, but even if I had to pay a hundred pounds to secure the ramshackle
old house it must be done.
She returned with a crumpled envelope in her hand, upon which was
scribbled in pencil: “George Purvis, 7, Calthorpe Street, Gray’s Inn
Road, London.”
My heart gave a bound. Here was the actual address of the man of whom I
had been for weeks in search, the purchaser of the key to the hidden
wealth! I endeavoured to betray no surprise, but to conceal my jubilant
feeling was certainly difficult. If I had a clue to my rivals, I had
also a clue to the employers of those burglars who had so terribly upset
poor old Mr. Staffurth’s study.
“How long ago is it since this gentleman came to see you?” I inquired,
scribbling the address on my shirt-cuff and handing back the envelope.
“His first visit was two or three days after you came,” the woman said.
“He seemed very much taken with that coat o’ arms on the wall outside,
and asked me if I knew anything of the history of the place. Of course I
don’t. I only know that somebody named Walshe lived here about a hundred
years ago, for their graves are in the churchyard. The gentleman stayed
at the Sonde Arms at Rockingham for a day or two, but before he went
back to London he told me that he might possibly take the house off my
hands. He came again, about a week ago, had another look round, and then
made me promise not to let it until I heard from him.”
“What rent did you ask?”
“Fifty pounds a year.”
“And he thought it too much?”
“Well, he seemed to hesitate. Perhaps he thinks he can get it cheaper,
but he won’t.”
I wondered whether this hesitation was due to want of funds. More
probably, however, it was because of the uncertainty of the whereabouts
of the hidden loot.
“The house would just suit my friend, who wants quiet for his studies,”
I said, “and if you will let it, I’m prepared to pay you a year’s rent
down, at this minute.”
She shook her head.
I had misjudged her, believing that ready money would tempt her to a
bargain. But she was a woman of her word, it seemed, for her answer
was:—
“No, sir. I’m very sorry, but you see I gave a promise to the gentleman,
and I can’t break it.”
“But you didn’t give your promise in writing, did you? You did not give
him an option of the property?”
“I wrote nothing. I merely told him that I wouldn’t let it before he had
given me a decided answer.”
“He may be a year deciding, or even more!” I pointed out. “Are you
prepared to wait all that time?”
“No. I can write to him.”
Such a course would not suit me. If she wrote saying that she had
another prospective tenant, then he would clinch his bargain at once.
No; my object was to oust him in this. He had outwitted me once, but I
was determined he should not get the better of me on a second occasion.
My next thought was to offer a higher rent than that asked, so as to
give her a margin of profit on the transaction, but suddenly a thought
occurred to me that it was her husband, not herself, who held the lease,
and perhaps I might not find him so scrupulous about keeping promises if
there was a ten-pound note to be got out of the bargain.
So I expressed regret and all that sort of thing, and said that I would
like to see Mr. Kenway on his return.
“He went to Stamford by train this morning,” she replied. “I’m expecting
him every minute.”
So I went out and wandered through the neglected wilderness that had
once been a garden. Everywhere were signs of a long departed glory,
broken statuary, ivy-grown balustrades, and a fine old sculptured
sundial, now, alas, entirely hidden by creepers and ivy.
Mrs. Kenway’s husband returned in about half an hour—a thin-faced,
dark-bearded, thick-set little man with a pair of sharp black eyes,
which told me the instant I was introduced to him that he was a good
business man and ready for a bargain.
Seated with him on an American cloth-covered chair in that inartistic
dining-room, I commenced to chat about insurance matters, and learnt
that business was not very good about those parts. Then, in his wife’s
presence, I approached the proposal for taking the house off his hands,
explaining what Mrs. Kenway had told me on a previous visit regarding
its unsuitability for the reception of paying guests.
“Well,” he said, in a gruff voice, “things do happen strangely. You’re
the second gentleman we’ve had after the house within a week or two.
We’d be pleased enough to let it, only my wife has promised somebody
else in London.”
“She has told me that,” I said. “Of course, if you refuse to let the
place, well and good. But not only am I ready to sign an agreement with
you this afternoon and pay you the whole year’s rent in advance to-day,
but in order to secure the place for my friend I’m ready to make a
bargain with you.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll give an extra ten-pound note over and above what you’ve asked this
other gentleman.”
Husband and wife exchanged glances. I saw, as I had expected, that ten
pounds and release from the burden of the house, which was far too large
for people in their circumstances, was a temptation.
“Well, my dear?” he asked. “What do you say? Shall we let the place and
clear out?”
“I’ve given you my offer,” I interposed, with a careless air. “My friend
commissioned me to find him a quiet place at once, and I am prepared to
pay more than its worth because of my own family associations with the
place.”
“Well, we have the other gentleman, you know,” insisted the woman.
“It’s not at all certain if he’ll take it,” I said. “And if he does, he
won’t pay so much as I offer.”
The man was ready to clinch the bargain, but the woman was one of those
scrupulously honest bodies who hesitated to break her word.
They talked together for a few moments out in the hall, while I awaited
their decision.
It was in my favour, and within half an hour the necessary preliminaries
were executed, agreements were written out and signed, and Mr. Kenway
had in his pocket my cheque for sixty pounds, in exchange for which I
held his lease and his agreement handing the place over to my care,
subject, of course, to the landlord’s approval.
In one instance, at least, I had got the better of Mr. Purvis, and, what
was more to the point, I had obtained his address.
CHAPTER XVI
MRS. GRAHAM’S VISITOR
WHEN I returned to town that same evening and told Staffurth he became
wildly excited.
“Really, doctor,” he said, “the matter increases in interest daily.”
“When I take possession of the Manor, I think we ought to make a
search,” I replied. “We must not allow burglars to enter there, or they
may forestall us after all.”
“Of course, of course. The treasure may be hidden in the house for aught
we know. It is important that we should be the first to make a thorough
examination of the place.”
“But what is most important of all is that we’ve gained the address of
this man Purvis.”
“Calthorpe Street is not the most respectable neighbourhood in London,”
he observed. “Do you know it?”
I confessed to ignorance, but next morning went to Gray’s Inn Road and
found the dingy street running off to the right, opposite the end of
Guilford Street. No. 7 was, I discovered, a grimy, smoke-blackened
private house, like most of the others, set back behind iron railings,
with a deep basement. The windows sadly required cleaning, and at them
hung limp and sooty lace curtains which had once been white.
Walking on the opposite side of the pavement I passed and repassed it
several times, noting its exterior well. The windows of the first floor
were better kept than those of the dining-room, and on a small round
table I noticed a doll. From those facts I gathered that the place was
let out in apartments, and that the occupants of the first floor were a
man with his wife and little daughter. It was not yet eight o’clock, and
the newspaper man passing left a paper beneath the knocker—a _Sporting
Life_, which further showed the racing proclivities of at least one of
the inmates. Presently, as I watched, the postman came along, and,
slipping several letters into the slit in the front door, passed on
without knocking.
I hurried along the street into the King’s Cross Road, and, when he
turned the corner, accosted him.
At first he was inclined to be uncommunicative, as a good servant of the
Post Office should be, but by the application of a small refresher his
tongue was unloosened, and he told me that the occupants of No. 7 were
racing people.
“They’re bookmakers, I fancy,” he added. “They have lots of letters by
every post, and post-cards about tips and things.”
“Do you know the name of George Purvis?”
“Yes. It’s some one who has, I think, come to live there lately.”
“Do you know him?”
“Not at all. Never seen him.”
“How long ago did you deliver the first letter addressed to Purvis?”
“About three weeks, I think. But if you want to know more, why don’t you
ask the servant? She’s doing the steps now. I daresay she’d tell you all
about him.”
I took the man’s advice, and returning to the house found a dirty,
ill-dressed girl in canvas apron slopping water over the front steps and
rubbing hearthstone upon them.
With some caution I addressed her, and, having slipped half a crown into
her hand, told her to say nothing of my inquiries, but to respond to my
questions.
“Do you know a gentleman named Mr. George Purvis who lives here?” I
asked.
“I know Mr. Purvis, sir, but ’e don’t live ’ere. ’E only calls for his
letters sometimes, and missus gives them to him.”
“What’s your mistress’s name?”
“Mrs. Graham.”
“And who are the people who live upstairs?”
“They’re the Johnsons. Mr. Johnson is on the turf, they say. ’E goes to
race-meetin’s in a white hat and a bag slung over his shoulder.”
“But where does Mr. Purvis live?”
“I don’t know, sir. He comes sometimes to see Mrs. Graham.”
“Does he receive many letters?”
“Oh, two or three a week, perhaps.”
“Well,” I said, “if you want to earn a sovereign you can do so very
easily. Find out for me where Mr. Purvis lives, and I’ll give you a
sovereign.”
The girl, although of true Cockney type, dirty and slatternly, was
nevertheless intelligent.
She seemed somewhat dubious, replying:—
“I’m very much afraid, sir, that I won’t be able to do it. But I’ll try,
if you like.”
“Yes, try,” I said eagerly. “I shall pass by now and again about this
same hour in the morning, and when you’ve been successful, tell me. By
the way, what kind of man is Mr. Purvis?”
“Well, sir, ’e’s very thin, rather tall, with a pale face and sandy
hair. But I must get on; Mrs. Graham’s coming down.”
“Recollect what I’ve told you, and if you say nothing to anybody I’ll
make it thirty shillings. You understand?”
“All right, sir,” answered the girl, bending again to her work, and I
passed along the street and out again to the Gray’s Inn Road.
I was once more disappointed, for I believed that I had tracked my rival
to his home. But it seemed that the fellow was far too wary. He received
his correspondence through the hands of this woman, Mrs. Graham, thus
showing that he wished to conceal his place of abode. When a woman is
the receiver of a man’s letters, it is always looked upon by the police
as a bad sign.
Having a description of this man Purvis, I resolved to lay in wait for
him to visit Mrs. Graham, and then to follow him home. Therefore,
through that day and several days following I kept such a watchful eye
upon all that went on in Calthorpe Street that I saw the policeman on
the beat suspected me of loitering for the purpose of committing a
felony. I therefore called him aside, gave him a card, and told him that
I was keeping observation for the arrival of a tall, fair, thin
gentleman, who would call at No. 7, and that if he assisted me I would
make it worth his while.
We were not long in making the compact, and the fact that he could watch
while I went into a saloon bar in the Gray’s Inn Road to snatch my hasty
meals made the observation much more certain and easy.
A whole week I spent in those squalid, smoky streets, sometimes lounging
at one end of Calthorpe Street and sometimes at the other, relieved now
and then by the constable, who came and stood at the opposite corner as
signal that I was allowed half an hour’s repose.
Try yourself a day at the corner of a London street awaiting the arrival
of a person you have never seen, but whose description has been given to
you, and you will at once discover how wearisome a task it is. Hundreds
of men nearly answering the description will pass you, and your hopes
are raised as every one approaches.
Still, I intended to outwit this clever adventurer, whoever he was. He,
or his accomplices, had obtained possession of at least one object that
was my property, the document with the seven signatures, and I intended
that he should be hoist by his own petard even though I had to wait for
him a year.
The servant girl was entirely in my confidence. Each morning as she
“did” the steps I passed the time of day with her, and she informed me
that Mr. Purvis had not called, although her mistress was expecting him,
as letters were awaiting him.
Now, it seemed to me probable that if Mrs. Graham knew the man’s
address, and he did not fetch his letters, she would either send him a
line or re-address the correspondence. Therefore, I gave instructions to
the girl to be on the lookout for the address on any letter she might be
sent to post, and make a note of it for me.
One afternoon about five o’clock, while I was hastily taking a cup of
tea in a shop in King’s Cross Road, my friend the constable put his head
inside and beckoned me out.
“The cove you’re waiting for has just gone into No. 7, sir,” he said;
“tall, fair moustache, freckled face, and wearin’ a straw hat.”
In an instant I was on the alert and, full of excitement, walked back
with him to the corner of Calthorpe Street.
“You’re going to follow him, I suppose?”
“Certainly. I want to discover where he lives.”
“Does he know you?”
“Probably he does.”
“Then you’ll have to be wary if you’re going to follow him.”
“Trust me,” I replied confidently. “I shall take every precaution.”
We separated, and impatiently I awaited the appearance of the man who
was my rival.
Already Mr. Kenway had written to the landlord of the Manor House, and
only that morning I had received his consent. Therefore, the matter was
concluded, and I held the tenancy of a lonely, weather-worn old place,
without possessing a stick of furniture to make it habitable.
But I was anxious to see what manner of man was this Purvis, the smart
investigator who had paid half a sovereign for that most precious of all
documents. How was it possible that he could have knowledge of the
affair, save, perhaps, from the local legend that the Knutton family
were entitled to a fortune? The gossip in Rockingham and elsewhere might
possibly have aroused his curiosity, but if so he must also have been
aware that I held the key to the cipher. Thereby hung a mystery.
Once it occurred to me that Job Seal might be working against me, but on
full reflection I saw that such suspicion was unfounded. Seal had
foregone his claim in return for half of the gold, and had sailed for
the Mediterranean perfectly satisfied.
No. The affair had, I saw, grown into a desperate one; a fortune was
awaiting one or other of us—the man who was clever enough to outwit the
other.
For an hour I waited at the street corner, my eyes ever upon that flight
of steps which led to the dark green sun-blistered door, until I was
weary and exhausted. Purvis was undoubtedly having tea and gossiping
with the widow.
I saw my friend the servant girl come to the dining-room window, pull
the yellow lace curtains aside, and, putting her head out, look up and
down the street. She caught sight of me, and with the knowledge that I
was on guard, quickly withdrew.
Was it a signal that he was about to come forth?
I waited. Seven o’clock struck, then eight, but still no sign of him. He
was surely making a long visit. As darkness closed in I moved nearer the
house, in order that he might not be able to slip away unobserved.
Suddenly, a little after nine, the girl opened the door and a visitor
emerged. But I was disappointed. A woman in deep black descended the
steps and turned to walk in my direction. The instant I saw this I
hurried on, crossed the road, and then slackened pace in order that she
should overtake me.
She was not long in doing so, and as she passed I turned and looked her
full in the face.
Judge my surprise when I recognized her to be none other than the girl
who had taken me on that mysterious journey to Blackheath!
CHAPTER XVII
THE SELLER OF THE SECRET
“WHY, Miss Bristowe!” I cried. “Perhaps you don’t recollect me?”
She started quickly, and drew back for a moment, her countenance
blanching; then looking into my face, she said, with a timid laugh:
“Why, of course, doctor! But have you forgiven me for taking you on that
fool’s errand?”
“Yes, long ago,” I laughed. “But our meeting this evening is certainly
unexpected. Have you friends in this neighbourhood?”
She replied in the affirmative, but without giving me any explanation.
“And your brother?” I asked, recollecting Whitworth’s declaration that
he had never heard of her. “Is he any better?”
“Oh, a great deal, thanks,” was her reply. “He took a turn for the
better that night I came to you, and has improved ever since.”
She looked, I think, prettier than on that night when we had driven
together to Blackheath. But she had deceived me in regard to her
statement concerning Dr. Whitworth, so I supposed she was deceiving me
now.
She was in a hurry to get home, she told me, and my first impulse was to
follow her secretly, but when I recollected that the man for whom I had
been so long in wait was actually inside No. 7, I decided to keep watch
upon him rather than upon her.
The fact that she had come from that house was in itself curious, and
made me suspect that her visit to me on that night in Walworth had some
secret connection with the scheme of this man Purvis.
The manner in which she was hurrying when I stopped her made it plain
that she was late for some appointment.
There were two courses open to me, namely: to follow her, or else to
remain and await Purvis. The discovery that she was friendly with some
person at No. 7 had suddenly aroused within me a desire to know her
place of abode in order to make secret inquiries concerning her. Yet,
after all, my chief business was with Purvis, so I decided to remain on
watch for him.
With her consent, therefore, I saw her into an omnibus for Ludgate Hill,
whence she told me she would take train home, and when I parted from her
I expressed a fervent hope that we might meet again before very long.
“Good-night,” she said, as we shook hands. “Yes, I hope we shall meet
again—in more fortunate circumstances than to-night.” And she mounted
into the omnibus and left me.
What could she mean by more fortunate circumstances? I was puzzled at
her words, but at last their truth became apparent.
Through many hours, till far into the night, I waited in that vicinity
for the man who was my rival. But he never came out, neither that day
nor the next.
The reason, I afterwards found, was simple enough. The servant had
played me false and told him everything; therefore he had waited until
darkness set in, and then climbed over several garden walls into Wells
Street, a short thoroughfare running parallel at the back, and quietly
emerged into Gray’s Inn Road.
So while I had waited patiently in front he had ingeniously escaped at
the back, aided most probably by the mysterious Miss Bristowe and Mrs.
Graham, whose character, of course, I had no means of ascertaining.
According, however, to my friend the constable, some shifty individuals
lived in that neighbourhood.
In any case I had the dissatisfaction of knowing that all my vigilance
had been naught, and that the man Purvis would never again run the
gauntlet of Calthorpe Street. He would no doubt arrange for another
address, and if so I might obtain it by means of the Kenways, providing,
of course, that they had not yet told him the house was let.
I took counsel with Mr. Staffurth, as I did very frequently nowadays.
I blamed myself that on that night I was alone. Had I an assistant with
me he might have followed the young lady home. Staffurth being of the
same opinion, suggested that I should accept the services of his nephew,
a young bank clerk who had been compelled to leave his occupation in the
City temporarily on account of ill-health. This young fellow, whom I had
met once or twice at Clapham, was named Philip Reilly. Smart, well
dressed, and well educated, he had been an athlete before his illness,
and had carried off many prizes at Lillie Bridge and other places.
He was just the sort of young man to be useful, and when that evening he
sat in his uncle’s study and the full facts of the case were related to
him in confidence, he became highly excited over it, and announced his
eagerness to act under my directions.
“We have a formidable enemy to contend with, Philip,” the old gentleman
pointed out. “And recollect that whatever may happen you must act with
due caution so as not to play into the hands of our rivals.”
“Trust me for that,” he said. “The affair sounds exciting, at all
events.”
“Yes,” I remarked, “and matters will grow more exciting before long, I
anticipate.”
“But this Miss Bristowe,” he exclaimed. “Have we no means of
rediscovering her?”
“At present, I am sorry to say, we haven’t,” I responded. “We may
possibly get hold of Purvis’s new postal address, and if we do so it may
lead us back to Miss Bristowe, who seems to me somehow associated with
him. How, of course, I can’t tell.”
Reilly sat with folded arms, his clean-shaven face bearing a deep,
thoughtful look as he puffed his pipe. It is not given to every one to
be engaged on a treasure hunt, and from the first moment when he was
told about it its interest overwhelmed him and he was eager to make a
commencement.
After a long consultation it was arranged that we should both go down to
Caldecott and endeavour to find out Purvis’s new address. It was also
agreed that before we took another step we ought to be acquainted with
the personal appearance of our rival.
To work in the dark any longer might, we foresaw, prove fatal to our
object; therefore, on the following day, I introduced Reilly to the
Kenways as the new tenant of the Manor House.
Fortunately they had not communicated with Purvis. Hence I took them
somewhat into my confidence, and induced Mr. Kenway to write a letter to
Calthorpe Street, asking whether he intended to take the house, and
requesting the favour of a reply.
This he did at my dictation, and I had the satisfaction of putting the
letter in the post-box at Rockingham. By that ruse I hoped to gain
knowledge of Purvis’s new address. As had already been proved, he was
what is vulgarly known as “a slippery customer,” but both Reilly and
myself determined that if we once knew his postal address we would very
quickly come up with him.
We had taken up our quarters at the Sonde Arms, at Rockingham, and very
comfortable and rustic they were after the dust and heat of London. My
long and unavailing vigil in that stifling side street had rather pulled
me down. Day after day I had waited there, often hungry and thirsty, and
at all times dusty and uncomfortable, compelled to eat as I could, and
to hobnob with all and sundry, until my very heart seemed stifled by the
dust of the throbbing city.
But in old-world Rockingham, even on the most sultry day, were soft
zephyrs that fanned our cheeks. We ate in a room at the back, and to us,
through the open window, came the sweet scent of the climbing roses and
honeysuckle, and the mingled perfume of the old-fashioned cottage garden
behind. The fare was plain and wholesome, the ale home-brewed and of the
best, and we also had an opportunity to gossip with the drink-sodden old
simpleton Ben Knutton.
The Kenways were looking for other quarters, therefore we could not yet
take possession of the Manor House. Reilly had given forth that he was a
student, a man of means, and something of an invalid, therefore he had
hired the house for the purposes of being quiet and able to study
without such distractions as there were in London.
He was full of ingenuity, which I quickly recognized after he had
associated himself with me. He made a minute inspection of the house I
had taken for him, and afterwards became possessed of the fixed idea
that the treasure was secreted behind the panelling of the centre
upstairs room. Why, I know not. But no argument of mine would remove the
idea, and he was frantically anxious to obtain possession of the
premises in order to secure the old Italian’s hoard.
We were, however, compelled to exercise considerable patience. We could
not hurry the outgoing tenants, neither dare we betray any undue anxiety
regarding the place. We could only await a response from Purvis.
It came at last after nearly a week of idle waiting. Mr. Kenway handed
it to me, saying:—
“It seems as though he wants to take the place after all.”
“He’s too late,” I laughed, and eagerly read the letter, which was to
the effect that he had not yet decided, but would write giving a
definite answer in a couple of days. The letter was headed, “14,
Sterndale Road, Hammersmith, London,” and to that address Mr. Kenway was
asked to write.
Our ruse had worked satisfactorily. We were again cognizant of the
address—the postal address—of our mysterious rival.
Reilly was eager to return to London in search of him, but we remained
at Rockingham yet another day, making inquiries and getting on good
terms with most of the people with whom we came into contact.
Ben Knutton was, of course, closely questioned, and in reply to my
inquiry whether he had since met the gentleman who purchased the bit of
parchment from him, he said:—
“Yes. ’E came about a fortni’t ago and asked me if I had anything else
to sell, and I told him that I hadn’t.”
“He called on you at your cottage?”
“Yes. One night after I came ’ome from work. He made me let him look
through all the things I had. I told him that I’d heard that the
parchment I sold him was worth a lot o’ money, and he asked who told me.
I explained that a gentleman from London had been asking about it after
he had bought it, and he laughed, saying: ‘I know the man; ’e’s a fool,
’e is.’”
“Meaning me, eh?”
“I suppose so, sir, of course, beggin’ your pardon.”
“Well, Mr. Knutton, I don’t think I’m much of a fool,” I laughed. “That
man swindled you, that’s all.”
“Then do you really think, sir, that the parchment had something to do
with our property?” he asked in surprise.
“Possibly it may have,” was my response. “Of course I’ve never seen it,
so can’t say.”
“Well, sir,” the old labourer burst forth, “I don’t like that man at
all. ’E ain’t no gentleman, that I’m sure.”
He had, I supposed, failed to “stand” the necessary quantity of beer
which, in Knutton’s eyes, stamped the gentleman.
“Why not?” I inquired.
“Because he made a lot of unkind remarks about you, sir,” was his
answer. “He told me that you were trying to swindle me out of the money
we ought to have, and a long yarn showing you up to be one of the worst
o’ blackguards.”
“Very kind of him, I’m sure,” I laughed. “One day, however, we shall see
who’s the scoundrel and adventurer. In the meantime, Knutton, just
beware of any future dealings with him.”
“I will, sir,” was the man’s reply. “I’m very sorry I ever sold that
parchment. I only wish I’d showed it to you. You’re a gentleman as would
perhaps have been able to read it.”
“Ah, Knutton, I only wish you had kept it for me,” I responded, with a
heartfelt sigh. “But it’s useless to cry over spilt milk, you know. We
must make the best of it. All you have to do, however, is to keep a
still tongue in your head and beware of any other gentleman from
London.”
“Oh, I will, sir, now. You can rely on me—that you can.” And the old
fellow raised his great mug of beer and emptied it at a single gulp.
His capacity for ale, like that of many farm labourers, was simply
astounding.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE SILENT MAN’S WARNING
PHILIP REILLY, whose energy seemed indefatigable, although he was yet
half an invalid, left me next morning and returned to town.
In council, in my airy little bedroom with the attic window embowered by
creeping roses, we arrived at the conclusion that he would have more
chance of success in gaining information than myself, therefore I
dispatched him to London in order to keep an observant eye upon the
address in Sterndale Road.
For several reasons I remained in the neighbourhood of Caldecott. First,
I was apprehensive lest Purvis and his associates—for I felt convinced
that he was not acting alone—might make a forcible attempt to
investigate the Manor House. It was quite evident they suspected that
the treasure might be hidden therein, otherwise they would not have been
in treaty for a lease of the place. When they knew that I had
forestalled them their chagrin would, I anticipated, know no bounds.
Hence I felt constrained to remain on guard, as it were, until I could
take possession of the place.
Those warm autumn days were charming. I had brought with me a camera,
and, as excuse for remaining in that rural neighbourhood, took
photographs. I found many picturesque pastoral scenes in the vicinity,
and wandered hither and thither almost every day. The Countess of
Cardigan kindly permitted me to photograph on her estate, and I took
many pictures of the beautiful old hall at Deene, one of the most
imposing and historic homes of Northamptonshire, the Park, and the
picturesque lake, which was once the fishpond of the monks, when Deene
was an abbey and carp the weekly fare on Fridays. To Laxton Hall, to
Fineshade Abbey, to Blatherwycke Park, to Apethorpe Hall, the noble
Jacobean seat of the Westmorland family, and to Milton, the fine
Elizabethan house of the Fitzwilliams, I went, taking pictures for
amusement, and endeavouring to make the villagers of Rockingham and
Caldecott believe that I was a photographic enthusiast. Truth to tell, I
was not. I entertain a righteous horror of the man with a camera, and if
I were Chancellor of the Exchequer I would put a tax on cameras as upon
dogs. The man who takes snap-shots can surely afford to pay
seven-and-sixpence a year towards the expenses of his country.
Letters from Reilly showed that although he was keeping a careful
observation upon 14, Sterndale Road—which had turned out to be the shop
of a small newsvendor—he had not been able to meet the gaunt,
fair-moustached individual whom we knew as George Purvis.
The days passed, for me long, idle days, when time hung heavily on my
hands. Nothing occurred to disturb the quiet tenor of my life in that
rural spot, until late one evening while I was walking along the high
road from Caldecott back to Rockingham.
There had been a garden _fête_ given by the Vicar, and in order to kill
time I had attended it, returning home later than I had anticipated,
because I had met Mr. Kenway and we had gossiped. He had found another
house, and was to move a week later.
The Sonde Arms at Rockingham is by no means a gay hostelry. It is quiet,
old-fashioned, and eminently respectable. Roysterers and hard drinkers
like Ben Knutton were relegated to a “tap” at the rear of the premises,
and were never encouraged by the innkeeper.
It was past eleven o’clock, a dark, overcast night, and as I trudged
along the road to Rockingham, lonely at that hour, I was wondering what
success Reilly had had in London. For some days I had received no word
from him, and had become somewhat anxious, for it had been arranged
between us that he should either write or wire every alternate day, so
that we should always be in touch with each other.
I had traversed nearly half the distance between the two villages, and
had entered the part of the road which, passing through a spinney, was
lined on either side by oaks, which entirely shut out every ray of faint
light, so that I was compelled to walk with my stick held forward to
feel the way. The complete darkness did not extend for more than a
hundred yards or so, but as there were, I knew, deep ditches at each
side of the road I guided myself with caution.
Suddenly, without warning, I heard a stealthy movement behind me, and
ere I could turn felt myself seized by the coat-collar in such a manner
that I was unable to turn and face my assailant, while almost at the
same instant I felt other hands going over me in front. My wrists were
held while my money was carefully extracted from my pocket, and my
wallet—probably because it was believed to contain bank-notes—was also
taken from me. I shouted, but no one came to my assistance. I was too
far from either village.
So dark it was that I could not distinguish the thieves, but I believed
there were three of them. The hands that held my wrists were soft, as
though unused to manual labour, but the muscles seemed like iron. I was
utterly powerless, and even though I shouted again and again no single
word was uttered by the robbers. They made short work of my pockets,
save that they did not think to feel inside my waistcoat where, in a
secret pocket I generally have there, I carried a serviceable Colt. I,
however, had no opportunity for self-defence, because when they had
finished I was run backwards, struck violently on the head, and tripped
up into the ditch at the wayside, while they made good their escape.
Fortunately, I fell upon my hands, and managed to save myself from going
into the water.
In an instant I was on my feet, revolver in hand, standing on guard.
But as I stood with ears strained to the wind I heard the sound of
footsteps hurrying in the distance, and from afar off there came to me a
low, ominous whistle. The fellows were probably tramps, but I knew quite
well that they were a desperate party, for in the struggle I had grasped
a formidable life preserver which one of them was carrying. It was a
pity that the darkness was too complete to allow me to see their faces.
No doubt the final blow on the head had been delivered with the life
preserver and was meant to stun me, but fortunately it did not.
The attack had been so sudden and complete that for a moment I remained
stock still. Then, angered that I should have fallen so completely into
their power, I walked on to Rockingham. I prized my watch and chain as a
gift from my mother, long since dead. They were not valuable; indeed, no
pawn-broker would have given three pounds for the lot, therefore the
haul of the thieves had not been a great one so far as value was
concerned.
Having reached the Sonde Arms and related my unpleasant experience, the
village constable was called, and I gave him a description of the
property stolen from me.
“I expect they were tramps, sir,” he said; “just lately I’ve noticed
several suspicious-looking characters loitering in the neighbourhood and
sleeping under haystacks. They mostly come from London. I made some
inquiries a couple of days ago at an inn in Lyddington, where three of
them had been drinking, and learnt that by his companions one of the men
is called Bennett.”
“Bennett!” I repeated, wondering for the moment in what connexion that
name had been impressed upon me. Then I recollected the scribbled
warning of the Mysterious Man:—
“Beware of Black Bennett!”
“What you tell me is very interesting,” I exclaimed to the constable. “I
think that in all probability this man Bennett had some connexion with
the theft. If found, I hope the police will question and search him. I
may be mistaken, but I believe that individual is well known by the
appellation of Black Bennett.”
I gave the constable the description of my watch for circulation, and
then, after a long chat with my host, the innkeeper, went to bed.
The days went by, but no word came from Philip Reilly. I wired to his
father’s house at Upper Tooting, but received a reply expressing
surprise, and stating that Philip had not been seen for ten days. A
telegram to Mr. Staffurth brought no more satisfactory reply; therefore,
as the Kenways were to give up possession of the Manor in a couple of
days and my presence there would be essential to guard against any
interlopers, I resolved to run up to London.
My anxiety for Reilly’s welfare increased when all my inquiries
regarding his whereabouts were futile.
According to Mr. Staffurth, the young man came there in a great state of
excitement about nine o’clock one evening. He was dressed in his oldest
suit, wore a golf cap and carried a stout stick. He said that he had
made certain inquiries regarding Purvis, had seen him and talked with
him. But that night he intended to make a bold bid to get at the secret
of our enemies and, if possible, to obtain possession of the
all-important document that had been sold by the drunken Knutton.
He had taken some whisky and water with his uncle, and left about ten,
without saying in what direction he was going or explaining all that he
had found out.
He told his uncle, however, to inform me to be forewarned of a man named
Bennett, and had explained his silence by saying that at present it was
not wise for him either to wire or write to Rockingham, as there was
some one there acting the spy.
This, then, accounted for his silence. But after his departure from his
uncle’s house that night nothing had been seen or heard of him.
I called at my own rooms in Chelsea, where my landlady met me in great
excitement. Not knowing my address she had been unable to write to me,
but it appeared that one evening, three days before, some one had
quietly entered the house with my latchkey, ascended to my rooms, and
ransacked everything.
Now, my keys had been attached to one end of my watch-chain, and had,
therefore, been stolen with the watch. The entry had been made on the
night following the robbery from me, and although my roll-top
writing-table had been opened and all my private papers and letters
tossed about, I missed nothing.
The thieves had been in search of something; probably of that
parchment-book of Bartholomew da Schorno which, fortunately, reposed in
the strong-room at my bank.
All this, however, showed the ingenious and desperate character of our
rivals. They would, I felt convinced, hesitate at nothing in order to
obtain possession of the treasure.
The strange disappearance of Philip Reilly had now grown alarming. I
made inquiries at the bank in Lombard Street, where he had been
employed, but none of his friends there had seen him for weeks. His
father, who was manager of a large linen warehouse in Cannon Street, was
equally anxious as to his welfare.
We were playing a dangerous and exciting game, and my only fear was
that, having made one or two discoveries, he had become too bold, and
acted with the indiscretion of youth. He had, however, always seemed
clear, level-headed, and cautious, and his father expressed a belief
that he was not the kind of young man to fall into a trap.
I watched the small newsagent’s in Sterndale Road, Hammersmith, having
sent an envelope, with a blank sheet of paper within, addressed to
Purvis. I had arranged that Mr. Kenway should remain at the Manor a few
days longer, and now turned my attention to finding the man who had
bought the secret. Reilly had discovered him; why should I not be
equally successful?
But although I waited in that street two long, never-ending days, I saw
no tall, fair man enter there.
That some serious misfortune had occurred to Philip Reilly I felt
convinced, but of what character I dreaded to contemplate. Twelve days
had gone by, and not a word had been received from him by any one.
The mysteries of London are many—and profound.
CHAPTER XIX
THE LADY FROM BAYSWATER
ON the second evening of my vigil in Sterndale Road my watchfulness was
rewarded by seeing a neat and familiar figure pass up the street and
enter the little newsagent’s.
It needed no second glance to tell me that the visitor to the shop was
the mysterious girl who called me on that memorable night, from the
dispensary at Walworth—Miss Bristowe.
Fortunately she had not noticed my presence. Therefore I at once
concealed myself up a side passage and waiting till she emerged with a
letter in her hand—the one I had addressed to Purvis, I expect—I
started to follow her. Every moment I feared lest she might look round
and discover me, for in those back streets of Hammersmith there is not
much traffic. But I was determined on this occasion to follow her to her
home or to the hiding-place of Purvis.
Turning down Brook Green Road, she walked as far as the Hammersmith
Station of the Underground Railway, where she bought a ticket for
Notting Hill and entered the next train going west. On alighting she
traversed hurriedly the Lancaster Road, for it had begun to rain and she
was without an umbrella, and, turning at last into the Cornwall Road,
ascended the front steps of one of the dark, smoke-blackened houses in
that thoroughfare, not far from the corner of Portobello Road. She rang,
the door was immediately opened by a servant, and she disappeared
within.
Then, after a brief wait, I passed the house near enough to note that
its number was 120. She went in at half-past seven, and, although I
waited in the rain until half an hour before midnight, she did not come
forth again. I therefore concluded that I had at last gained knowledge
of her place of abode.
I wondered whether Purvis lived in that same house. She had called for
his letters at Sterndale Road, and would probably hand them to him at
once. Therefore, after long reflection, I came to the conclusion that he
must live at that address.
It was past one when I re-entered my own rooms, and for an hour before
turning in, occupied myself in re-arranging the chaos effected by the
unknown intruders. The latter had certainly been disappointed with the
result of their investigation, for they had not troubled themselves
about two of the valuable old manuscripts I had found on board the
_Seahorse_—the _Decretales Summa_ of the Monk Henry and the _Book of
John Trethemius_—both of which were lying upon the mantelshelf. No, it
was the key of the cipher of which they had been in such active search,
but which was fortunately far beyond their reach.
Early next morning I renewed my vigil at the corner of the Portobello
and Cornwall Roads, hoping to meet the pretty woman who had so charmed
me.
Two hours I waited, until at last she emerged, as usual neatly dressed
in black. Through the maze of complicated streets she walked to
Westbourne Grove. She had made some purchases, and was gazing into one
of Whiteley’s shop windows when I came up beside her and, raising my
hat, greeted her.
She turned quickly, open-mouthed, and then, recovering from her
surprise, at once gave me her hand and greeted me quite light-heartedly.
“Really, doctor,” she laughed, “you seem quite ubiquitous. You are
always running up against me.”
“Well, it’s a doctor’s profession to go hither and thither quickly,” I
answered. “How is your brother?”
“Greatly better,” was her prompt reply, although I thought I could
detect duplicity in her answer. But she swiftly sought to change the
subject, and as I walked beside her she chatted quite merrily. I did
not, of course, let her know that I was aware of her abode, but, on the
contrary, spoke of it as though it were away at Blackheath, and she did
not seek to contradict me. Miss Bristowe was a clever woman in every
sense of the word, but at the same time she was sweet and winning—most
charming.
In her chatter was a light, irresponsible air that gave to her a _chic_
seldom found in an Englishwoman, while her small hands and feet, her
narrow waist, wide swinging hips, and the manner of her coiffure all
savoured of the Parisienne rather than of the Londoner.
My object was to learn from her something definite regarding the man
Purvis and his movements; her object was to conceal everything and to
mislead me.
She seemed, however, nothing loth to allow me to accompany her into the
several shops where she made small purchases. Once I referred to our
meeting in Calthorpe Street, recollecting how cleverly Purvis had
escaped me there, but she only laughed saying:—
“You must have thought me very rude to hurry away as I did, but I wanted
to get home.”
There were many matters I wished she would explain, but how could I ask
her point-blank? For what reason had she taken me to Blackheath that
night on a fruitless errand, and what connexion had she with the
mysterious Purvis?
Again, it occurred to me that if Reilly had watched that newsagent’s in
Sterndale Road he had probably met her. He might even have become
acquainted with her for aught I knew. I had, I remembered, given him a
detailed description.
But if they were acquainted, she would be utterly unaware of the young
man’s association with me; hence I dare not broach the subject.
While I lingered at her side I could not help remarking, within myself,
upon her affable courtesy and modest reserve towards me. A mystery
surrounded her; that was certain. But in that half-hour I spent with her
in Westbourne Grove I felt that she was not an adventuress, as I had
half believed her to be, and that, save for the fact that she
scrupulously concealed her place of abode, she was open and
honest-minded, with a pleasing grace and sweet smile.
Again, just as I had noticed on the first occasion we had met, I
detected that concealed within her heart was some deep-rooted sorrow,
some painful memory of the past, perhaps, that she could not forget, and
that now and then the sympathetic chord was struck that brought it all
back to her, causing that expression of sadness which appeared at
intervals in her eyes, and those half-suppressed sighs which she
believed I did not notice.
Near midday she took leave of me at Queen’s Road Station, for she would
not allow me to remain with her longer.
“You are really mysterious, Miss Bristowe,” I laughed; “I’ve spent a
most delightful hour, and am most unwilling to end our chat.”
“Ah,” she said, earnestly; “you must, doctor. You’ve been with me
already too long. Among all these people passing there may be one who
knows me, and has noticed me walking with a stranger.”
“Well, is it such a terrible sin?” I laughed.
“All sins are pleasant,” was her quick answer; “that included. But you
must really leave me now. Please do.”
“When you took me to Blackheath you sent me back without satisfying my
curiosity regarding your address,” I said, reproachfully. “Are you going
to act to-day in the same manner? Surely I may know where I can write to
you in order that we may one day enjoy another of these pleasant
gossips,” I pleaded.
She shook her head. Yet I saw that my words had created an impression
upon her, and furthermore that she was in no way averse to my
companionship.
“Why do you send me away like this? Do you fear lest we should be seen
together?”
She sighed that same sigh which had escaped her several times during our
walk. Noticing her apprehension I attributed it to the fear of some
jealous lover. A girl may flirt desperately, but she always hates to be
thought false by the man who loves her.
If she had nothing to conceal from me, why did she not give me her true
address in Cornwall Road? But she had much to hide from my knowledge,
and with her honest woman’s heart it required all her nerve and
ingenuity to successfully mislead me.
“No,” she faltered, at last; “we must not be seen together. You think
the manner I treated you that night at Blackheath extraordinary. So it
was. But it was imperative—for your sake!”
“I don’t understand you, Miss Bristowe,” I declared, quickly. “How was
it for my sake?”
“Ah!” she cried, as though in distress. “Believe me, I acted for your
own welfare! I can give you no further explanation.”
“But you mystify me!” I said. “My curiosity is but natural.”
“Certainly; but I’m sorry that at present I am unable to satisfy it,”
and her lips compressed themselves as a slight sigh again escaped them.
I was undecided whether she was wilfully deceiving me or whether it was
under dire compulsion that she was concealing her motives.
“By your words you lead me to believe that you are my friend, Miss
Bristowe; therefore it is surely permissible to give me an address
where, in the future, I may write to you?”
“But I can’t see what good can come of it,” she responded, hesitatingly.
“In fact, only harm can result in our acquaintanceship.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what I have said. If we remain apart it will be better for both
of us. Yet, somehow, Fate seems to throw us constantly into each other’s
society.”
She was, of course, in ignorance of how I had traced her from Sterndale
Road.
“True,” I remarked, “and that seems to me all the more reason why you
should name some place where I may write.”
“Well,” she said at last, after long hesitation and blushing slightly;
“if you should, at any time, really desire to write to me, you may
address your letter to Farmer’s Library, Kensington High Street.”
Thanking her I scribbled the address, then tried to persuade her to
allow me to remain longer. But she steadily refused.
“I must go now,” she said, “and although it sounds ungracious, I trust
it may be a long time before we meet again.”
“Why!” I asked, in surprise.
“Because such meetings place us both in peril,” was her vague yet
ominous answer.
“You perhaps object to my company?”
“On the contrary,” she hastened to reassure me, “I find it most
agreeable. But it behoves all of us, at certain times, to be
circumspect.”
She allowed me to shake her hand, then wishing me “Adieu!” turned back
again towards Westbourne Grove, with an excuse that she had forgotten to
make a purchase.
I saw through her ruse, and, by traversing the side streets, arrived at
Cornwall Road before her, and standing in an entry unobserved watched
her re-enter the house with a latch-key.
As far as that morning’s work was concerned it was highly satisfactory.
The chief fact that worried me now was the remarkable disappearance of
Philip Reilly. He was smart, wary, athletic, the very last fellow to
fall into any trap. Yet my apprehensions, just as those of his friends,
were rendered grave by reason of his continued silence. All I knew was
that he had been successful in his observations on the newsagent’s shop
in Sterndale Road, but in what manner he had not explained.
Like most young men who endeavour to solve a mystery, he had quickly
become an enthusiast, with a fixed notion that we should discover the
treasure.
Myself, I was far from sanguine, although, on the face of it, only that
document sold by Ben Knutton stood between us and fortune. If we could
but gain possession of that parchment for half an hour the secret of the
hiding-place would be ours.
But George Purvis and his unknown but unscrupulous associates knew its
value, just as we did, therefore it was far too well guarded.
CHAPTER XX
PHILIP REILLY TELLS A STRANGE STORY
DURING the three days that followed I kept watch in Cornwall Road,
haunting the neighbouring thoroughfares of Ladbroke Grove, Silchester
Road, Ledbury Road, and Powis Square, watching the movements of Miss
Bristowe, and ever on the alert for the coming of that tall,
fair-moustached individual, as the man Purvis had been described.
The girl whom I had found so charming went out often—once down to
Catford to visit friends. Apparently she lived in apartments, and did
her own shopping. She, however, had no male companion, and so close a
watch did I keep upon the house that I arrived at the conclusion that
Purvis did not live there after all.
Staffurth had grown very uneasy about his nephew, and although we put
our wits together we could devise no plan by which the mystery of his
disappearance might be solved. That the persons who were our rivals in
the affair would not stick at trifles had already been proved, hence our
apprehensions were of the gravest. Not being aware of the identity of
these people we were heavily handicapped, for they were most probably
cognizant of my every movement while I remained utterly in the dark as
to theirs.
Matters were certainly growing serious. I had received a letter from Mr.
Kenway telling me that he was compelled to remove his furniture from the
Manor House on the morrow, therefore I would be obliged to go down to
Caldecott again and do watch-dog duty. It was most important that Reilly
should be with me, for I intended to commence a search throughout the
house as soon as the Kenways had left. For that reason I bought a pick,
shovel, and a quantity of other tools I thought might be useful, and had
sent them down, packed in a case in order not to excite suspicion.
Sitting in my own room at Chelsea I pondered over the future, trying to
decide upon some judicious plan of action. It was long past midnight. My
green-shaded oil lamp was burning low and had already begun to splutter,
but I could see no way out of the cul-de-sac. My first thoughts were, of
course, for the safety of Philip, and he being still missing I did not
feel myself justified in carrying the search farther before the mystery
of his disappearance was cleared up.
I had found, on my return home, a letter from Seal, posted from Smyrna.
It was a rather grimy note, bluff, brief, and written in that heavy hand
that I knew so well in the log of the _Thrush_. The chief paragraph of
the letter ran:—
“I hope you’ve got something out of Old Mystery by this time and also
that you’re full sail, with a fair wind, towards that treasure. Don’t
write to me, as I leave to-morrow straight for Fresh Wharf, and hope to
see you within a fortnight.”
The clock on my mantelshelf struck two, and I was about to put out my
light and turn in, when of a sudden there came a violent ringing of the
bell. It startled me at that hour, and pulling aside my curtains I
looked down into the street, only to discover, to my joy, that Philip
Reilly stood below, looking up anxiously at my window.
“Come down, doc, and let me in!” he cried, and in response I soon
unchained the front door and was wringing his hand.
Walking before me he ascended the stairs and not until he had come into
the light of my room did I notice the change wrought in him.
“Good heavens, my dear fellow! Wherever have you been?” I cried, glaring
at him in surprise, for his clothes seemed half torn from his back, his
face dirty with a stubbly beard, as though he had not shaved for a week,
while his trousers were caked with mud and his white face bore a nasty
cut only half healed. It extended almost from the eye to the chin, and
with the blood still caked there, gave him a hideous and forbidding
appearance.
“Ah!” he gasped, throwing himself into an arm-chair, “you may well ask.
I’ve had a splendid time of it. Have you got a drop of brandy or
anything by you? I feel faint.”
He looked it, and I rushed to my cupboard and got out a bottle of
Martell and a siphon of soda.
I allowed him to take a long steady drink before questioning him, in the
meantime noting the terrible gash on his face. I saw also that his left
hand had been cut on the inside.
“Well,” I said, “we’ve all been most anxious about you, fearing
something bad had happened. Tell me all about it.”
“Anxious?” he laughed. “Not more anxious than I’ve been about myself, I
can tell you. As for what happened, well I must collect my thoughts in
order to tell you how it all began and what was the ultimate result. But
before I begin I may as well give you my own opinion, and that is, I
don’t believe that we shall ever find that treasure.”
“Why not?”
“Because the others know far more about it than we do,” was his reply.
“When I resolved to take a share in the investigation I never dreamed
that the game could be such a desperate one as it is. By Jove! those
fellows would murder both of us without the least compunction. We must
go armed in future.”
“But what occurred to you?” I asked, all anxiety to learn the reason of
his long silence.
“Well,” he said, finishing his brandy at one gulp; “it happened like
this. When I left you I came up to town and started to keep observation
on that newsagent’s in Sterndale Road. The job was a terrible wearying
one, but I was rewarded on the third evening by seeing the man you
described—tall, fair, and freckled—call for a letter. Unobserved by
him. I followed him home to St. Peter’s Square, Hammersmith. Then I
resolved to exercise a strict vigil over that house in order to find out
all about its inmates. During the following day I discovered that Purvis
was a bachelor of means and was very often in the habit of receiving
visits from men of rather shady character. By constant watchfulness I
came to know by sight all these men, five in number, including one named
Bennett.”
“Bennett?” I interrupted. “I wonder if he’s Black Bennett?”
“Don’t know,” was my friend’s rejoinder. “I can only tell you that they
are as fine specimens of rascally adventurers as can be found at this
moment in London. Purvis, being a good billiard player, often spends his
evenings at the Crown, in Hammersmith Broadway, playing sometimes with
Bennett and sometimes with one or other of his companions. Having
obtained this piece of knowledge from observation, I took a bedroom at
the Crown, in order that I might be able to saunter into the
billiard-room at odd hours. As you know, I can play a fair game, and my
object was to get into touch with Purvis by playing with him.
“I had not long to wait, for one evening he was there alone, and having
made some casual remarks he invited me to play. From the first he seemed
somewhat surprised to find that my form was slightly better than his,
and before long I saw from his play that he was used to the ruses of
sharks and thieves. He seemed to me to be rather well educated, the kind
of man whose exterior was that of a gentleman, but who lives by his
wits. He offered to bet me a sovereign on the game, and, in order to
content him, I agreed. Very quickly the game was entirely in my hands,
but so that he might become friendly I allowed him to win and paid him
the sovereign.
“Bennett came in hurriedly just than and whispered something in an
undertone, whereupon Purvis excused himself from playing further, put on
his coat, and followed his friend out. That mysterious message aroused
my curiosity; therefore as soon as the door was closed I threw on my
coat and slipped out just in time to see the pair enter a hansom. They
drove away and I drove after them, at a respectable distance, in order
that they should not detect my vigilance.
“We drove for more than half an hour through Shepherd’s Bush and Kensal
Green, until we entered the Edgware Road, near Kilburn Station, and,
crossing it, Purvis and Bennett alighted before a house in a dark
side-street. When they had disappeared inside I dismissed my own cab and
took a good look at the exterior of the place. It was a semi-detached
house of rather neglected appearance, approached by a small strip of
garden lying behind the iron railings. The place was in total darkness,
however—not even a light over the front door. They had entered so
quickly that I believe they must have used a latch-key.
“Half-a-dozen times I passed and repassed the dark silent place,
wondering what was the object of their journey there, until, the blinds
being up and the front rooms all being unlit, it occurred to me that
whatever was taking place was at the rear of the premises. So, resolving
to try and ascertain for myself the reason of the hurried visit, I
entered the little garden and crept silently round to the back, where in
a room on the first floor was a light, and even from where I stood I
could hear men’s voices. I saw that the yellow holland blind, having
been pulled down violently, had given way from the roller, and a piece
hung down. This would afford me a view of the room if only I could climb
high enough. Now, beneath the window in question was a lean-to
conservatory, built out from what was, I supposed, the drawing-room, but
upon the roof of such a fragile structure I dared not venture. I noticed
some iron piping going straight up, and, aided by the wooden lattice on
the wall, it occurred to me that I might safely accomplish the feat. As
you know, I am rather fond of climbing; therefore I quickly took off my
boots and commenced to work my way up towards the coign of vantage.
“To reach a level high enough, however, was a task much more difficult
than I had at first anticipated, especially as the creeper-covered
lattice work, being old and rotten, gave way almost each time I grasped
it. At last, however, swinging myself over, I succeeded in clutching
what seemed like a safe piece of trellis close to the spot that afforded
a view into the room. Just at that very moment, when my eyes came to the
window where hung the corner of the blind untacked from its roller, a
loud scream issued forth—the agonized cry of a woman.
“Clinging with hands and feet to the insecure woodwork I craned my neck
until I could get a view of the interior of the room. The sight that
greeted me was one that I was certainly unprepared for. The apartment
was a back parlour, fairly well furnished. Within stood Purvis, Bennett,
and two other men whom I recognized as constant visitors to St. Peter’s
Square. The door was open, and one of the men stood holding by the arm a
young, well-dressed woman. She had evidently been dragged in there
against her will, for she had covered her pale face with her hand to
shut out from her eyes the terrible object she had been brought there to
see—the corpse of a young man.”
“What!” I cried, starting up; “have they actually committed murder?”
“I suppose so,” was Reilly’s reply. “I merely tell you what I saw with
my own eyes. The dead man was in evening dress, and was lying on his
back on the carpet, his limbs slightly drawn up. There was on his
shirt-front a large ugly stain of blood, while his face was as white as
paper. The unfeeling brutes actually compelled the poor girl to touch
the dead man’s face, and she drew her fingers away from its cold contact
as though she had been stung. Then Bennett, addressing her with biting
sarcasm, said: ‘You didn’t believe us, miss, but you’ll believe now, I
think, and recollect that if you do not act exactly as we order you’ll
be served in the same way. You know me well enough to be aware that I
never repeat a threat—I carry it out!’
“‘You are cruel—inhuman!’ she cried, facing the four men, with an angry
passion suddenly lighting up her face. ‘He had done no harm, and you
killed him!—killed him because you are cowards!’ ‘Enough girl!’ cried
Bennett, and raising his fist he struck her on the mouth, cutting her
lip, while the other blackguards stood there, not attempting to
interfere. Purvis gave the body of the dead man a contemptuous kick, and
then bending down took the watch and chain from the poor fellow’s pocket
and, handing it to the man who stood in the doorway, said, ‘Here’s a
souvenir of to-night’s work. Like to have it?’ The bearded ruffian
grinned and slipped the dead man’s property into his pocket. ‘You shall
pay for this!’ the girl cried, defiantly, staunching the blood with her
handkerchief. ‘Oh!’ cried Bennett, ‘you dare to say a word and the rats
will make a meal off you pretty quick—remember that! There!’ he
exclaimed to the man who had pocketed the watch and who still held her
arm, ‘take the wench away! She’ll know her manners before long.’ She was
dragged out, and I heard her and her captor descending the stairs. Then,
from my perilous position, I could overhear the other three discussing
what should be done with the body, whereupon it was decided to convey it
in a travelling-trunk to the cloak-room of one of the termini—which of
them was not stated. I watched the trunk brought in—one of those large
ones, of compressed cane—and saw them first mutilate the face of the
corpse beyond all recognition.
“Then they packed the body in, locking the trunk and securing it with
cord. This done, a careful examination was made of the room. One or two
blood-stains were removed by Purvis with water and a sponge, and then
all three carried the trunk down to the hall to await a four-wheeled
cab. Purvis and Bennett returned again to the room where the light
burned, and I heard the latter say: ‘That’s one the less—and without
much trouble either. He might have proved a nuisance.’ Whereupon Purvis
remarked: ‘The girl was, I believe, in love with him.’ ‘Love be hanged!’
Bennett returned, roughly. ‘That’s the very reason why I had her brought
here—to show her that his death was due to her association with him.
She’ll blame herself for the tragedy now, and be our servant more then
ever; don’t you see?’
“Then a few minutes later, the man who had gone to the nearest cab-rank
returned, and all four went out, after extinguishing the lamp. I heard
the cab drive away, when it suddenly occurred to me that I ought to
attempt to follow it and ascertain where they deposited the evidence of
their crime. In my haste I made a false move and felt the woodwork
suddenly break from my hands. I tried to steady myself but could not,
and, overbalancing backwards, fell with a crash through the conservatory
roof, alighting upon the concrete floor.
“I know no more, save that when I came to I was lying in bed in an
hospital with a policeman sitting by my side—under arrest for attempted
burglary, they said. In two days I was sufficiently well to be taken to
the police-court, where, having refused to give any account of myself, I
was sent to prison for fourteen days as a rogue and vagabond. I saw it
was useless to recount what I had witnessed in that house, as the marks
of the crime had already been carefully obliterated; hence I did my
fourteen days, which expired this morning.”
“But the woman?” I exclaimed, utterly dumfounded by his startling story.
“Had you seen her before?”
“Yes, once, while I was waiting outside the newsagent’s in Sterndale
Road. She had called there on two occasions.”
“Was it Miss Bristowe?” I asked, describing her.
“Exactly as you say; dark, pretty, with a rather pointed chin; dressed
in black,” he answered.
Then a strange thought took possession of me. I wondered if by her
refusal to conduct me to her brother’s bedside at Blackheath on that
memorable night I had escaped a similar fate to that dead unknown.
The veil of mystery was certainly growing more than ever impenetrable.
CHAPTER XXI
WE MAKE A DISCOVERY IN THE MANOR HOUSE
REILLY’S story was a strange one. Although he had suffered imprisonment
as a rogue—no burglarious instruments being found upon him—I could do
nothing else than congratulate him upon his firm determination not to
expose his hand. But the incident was no good augury for the future.
We were, of course, in possession of a fact that might prove of greatest
use to us. He had seen the murdered man with his own eyes, although the
identity of the victim was at present a mystery. Miss Bristowe knew him,
too, and from her I hoped one day to obtain information as to who he
really was.
Although Philip had passed through an exciting time, it had been by no
means a futile one, for he had witnessed certain events which gave us
true and adequate knowledge of what manner of persons we had to deal
with. It was my friend’s belief that Miss Bristowe and the man who had
conducted her to that house had left before the accident had occurred to
him, and further, that the other three men, having left in a cab with
the travelling trunk and its gruesome contents, remained in ignorance of
his discovery by the neighbours, who were awakened by the crash.
We could, of course, fix the house wherein the assassination had taken
place from the report in the police books regarding the discovery of
Reilly, but, as he most wisely pointed out, the story of the murder
would never be believed, and if he gave information—first, no traces
would be found, and secondly, we should only prematurely betray our
knowledge to our enemies.
So we resolved to remain, for the present, silent. I saw now quite well
the reason of the tragic vein in the character of the sweet girl who had
so charmed me. I alone knew the secret of how the man, who was probably
her lover, had been murdered in cold blood by those scoundrels, who had
carried their fiendishness so far as to compel her to touch the corpse.
I dressed the cut on Reilly’s face, for it appeared that on coming out
of prison that morning he had taken off the bandage, although the doctor
had forbidden him to do so. Believing that I must still be on guard at
Caldecott, he had paid visits to several other people before coming to
me. On hearing that the Kenways were leaving the Manor on the morrow, he
was instantly keen on travelling down there and taking possession of the
place.
He slept on the couch in my sitting-room, and next morning, at ten
o’clock, we left London for Rockingham, having previously laid in a
stock of various necessaries, including lamps, cord, candles, and
matches, which we did not wish to purchase in the village.
At one o’clock we were back in our pleasant rustic quarters in the Sonde
Arms, where we lunched off cold beef, bread, and ale, and then walked
over to Caldecott, arriving there just before the van containing the
household goods of the Kenways was driven away. The insurance agent and
his wife were anxious to depart, therefore, after a hurried
conversation, they gave me over the keys, and we watched the van lumber
noisily out upon the highway over the moss-grown cobbles.
So we were left in possession of a rather dirty house minus a scrap of
furniture. Indeed, it was only then that we were awakened to the fact
that it would be necessary to obtain at least a table, a couple of camp
bedsteads, and a couple of chairs, if we intended to inhabit the place.
Leaving Reilly in possession I hired a trap at the Plough, drove to
Uppingham, and there purchased the necessary equipment of a cheap and
temporary character, not forgetting a couple of drinking glasses, of
course.
All were delivered by seven o’clock that night, and working in our shirt
sleeves we cleaned out one of the big upstairs rooms and set up the
narrow little beds, one in each corner. At first we thought of taking
separate rooms, but decided that if any midnight attack were made upon
us it would be best if we were in company.
We made a big wood fire in the room to air the mattresses and blankets,
and filled two pails with water from the pump wherewith to perform our
matutinal ablutions. Imagine how excited we were, possessors of a house
wherein a great and valuable treasure awaited our discovery.
In order to avert village gossip we explained at the Plough that Mr.
Reilly’s furniture was coming from Southampton, and what we had
purchased was for temporary accommodation. But poor Reilly’s face, I
still remember, was an ugly picture with the deep red scar where the
glass roof had cut him. We made arrangements at the Plough to take our
meals there, except tea, which we could brew ourselves, and it was
nearly midnight when, sitting out in the garden yawning, we knocked out
our pipes and went up to bed. Hours before we had been round to examine
the catches and locks of doors and windows, and to fasten them;
therefore we retired with a certain feeling that all was secure.
Beyond the thumping and squealing of rats beneath the boards, nothing
disturbed our peace and we rose early, prepared to make our first tour
of inspection. Therefore, after a wash and shave, we each took hammer
and chisel from the box I had sent on in advance, and together had a
superficial look round.
By tapping the panelling and walls we discovered dozens of hollow
places, but a fact we had hitherto overlooked very soon occurred to us,
that if we commenced to break down the walls we should injure the
property to the tune of some hundreds of pounds, and be compelled to put
it in order again; not a very bright out-look, especially as we had one
of the chosen race as landlord.
One object we had to keep constantly in view was the satisfaction of the
curiosity of the villagers. Two men cannot take an empty house and live
in it, almost devoid of furniture, without exciting some comments; hence
our story of the furniture in transit from the South of England.
The whole of the first day we devoted to a careful survey of the
upstairs rooms as being the most likely spot where the treasure was
concealed. In one of them—the one Reilly had suspected—the central
room over the main entrance hall, the leopard rampant of da Schorno was
sculptured in marble over the big open fireplace, executed evidently by
an Italian hand. Probably, when old Bartholomew built the place or
altered it according to his liking, he had with him one or two of his
compatriots. To me it seemed as though one had been a sculptor, for on
the stone balustrade of the stairs and around other fireplaces, wherein
modern grates had since been placed, were fine specimens of
sixteenth-century ornament.
On the following morning, after we had brewed our tea and boiled some
eggs, we commenced investigations in that upstairs centre room, which
had probably been at one time the best bedroom. The wall on the left,
parting it from the next room, had attracted our attention, owing to its
abnormal thickness, and when we sounded it with a hammer it seemed at
one point to emit a hollow sound. This hollowness only extended for
about two feet square, starting from the skirting-board.
We were neither carpenters nor plasterers, therefore we could not
ourselves repair any damage that we might cause. But after some
consultation we arrived at the conclusion that the only way was to make
a thorough search, irrespective of consequences. Therefore, with hammer
and chisel, I started to break into what I hoped would be a secret
cavity. As soon as I commenced I saw that the wall was plastered at that
point, and not of stone as in other parts. This encouraged me, and aided
by Reilly we forced out the skirting-board, and had very soon made a
considerable hole. The plaster was, however, fully six inches thick, and
having penetrated it my chisel suddenly struck wood.
The dull sound caused the hearts of both of us to leap in expectation.
Another blow and a great piece of plaster came away.
“Why, there’s a door here!” I cried; “a small oak door that’s been
fastened and plastered up.”
I stopped working while Philip examined it. He agreed that it was a hard
panel of oak, but whether of a door it was impossible to say.
Again I resumed work, and within a quarter of an hour had laid bare the
square strong door of a cupboard.
Reilly, by this time, was literally dancing with excitement. What, we
wondered, could be contained therein?
It certainly had not been opened for centuries. Indeed, although the
small door had long iron hinges stretching nearly right across it, there
seemed no sign of lock or bolt.
“The way it’s closed is a secret, depend upon it, doctor,” my companion
cried. “I really believe the treasure’s in here. Fancy digging out this
at the first trial!”
But, myself, I was not so sanguine. I preferred to work steadily without
undue excitement, for I saw that in such an investigation quietness and
method were essential to success.
I don’t, of course, deny that I was actually on the tiptoe of
expectation, for I, like Mr. Staffurth and Philip, had arrived at the
firm conclusion that if the old Italian’s treasure still existed it was
hidden somewhere in that house.
Therefore, at any blow of the hammer, the secret, so well guarded
through three hundred years, might become revealed to us.
The clouds of white dust that I had raised rendered it thirsty work;
therefore Philip, on going downstairs for the pickaxe, also brought up a
bottle of ale, which we drank with avidity—from the bottle. That closed
door proved a more formidable barrier than we had anticipated. Of
well-seasoned oak, it was studded with rusty nails, and resisted all our
efforts to prise it open. There was no lock, so far as we could see, nor
any bolt; only the two long rusty hinges. Again and again we tried to
insert a crowbar between the lintel and the door, but although both of
us toiled through the greater part of the morning the door would not
budge.
Reilly, with his long, athletic arms, attacked it with the pick, but the
noise he made sounded through the empty house like the explosion of
bombshells, and the dust raised was suffocating. All these efforts being
futile, we resolved to cut the door out bodily, and with that object I
commenced with centre-bit at a spot where the lock would, in ordinary
circumstances, be situated. I drilled and drilled, slowly cutting a
circular hole in the wood, and had penetrated to a depth of fully four
inches when a harsh grating sound told us the unwelcome truth.
The back of the door was covered by an iron plate.
“We can’t cut it; that’s very certain!” I declared, withdrawing the
drill. On examining the hole by aid of a candle I could see where the
drill had cut a scratch on the face of the plate. I sounded the iron
with a small crowbar and noted that it seemed of considerable thickness.
Moreover, it was probably bolted to the woodwork by the nails which
studded the side of the door towards us.
“There must be something inside,” Reilly declared. “No one would have
taken such precaution if there was nothing of value within. Let’s
persevere!”
“Of course,” I agreed, “but we must proceed scientifically; it’s useless
working in the dark. Now, my own idea is that we might perhaps cut away
the wall on the side where the door is fastened and thus get a hole for
leverage. I believe that’s the only way.”
Reilly was of similar opinion, therefore we both set to work with a
will, I holding the chisel and my companion swinging the heavy hammer.
The plaster was, of course, soon cut out, but when we came to the rough
stone of the wall our hard work commenced. By dint of constant labour,
with pick and crowbar, we gradually loosened one of the larger stones,
and in half an hour had levered it out upon the floor of the room.
It carried us but little farther, for the stone wall was far thicker
than we anticipated. It had been built in a day long before contract
jobs and jerry builders were known, and by men who constructed houses
intended to last through centuries. There was no single brick in the
whole place, only stone, of that kind known as Barnack rag.
The loosening of the first stone was hardest of all, and it being near
one o’clock, our luncheon hour at the Plough, we washed, tidied
ourselves, and sauntered along to the inn, smoking cigarettes, as though
nothing had occurred. Our hands itched to be back at work again, but,
having to act with circumspection in order not to betray the nature of
our operations, we were compelled to eat our meal leisurely.
Soon after two we went eagerly back again, and stone after stone we
succeeded in removing, until we obtained sufficient space between the
stone and the door to allow of leverage.
Then, inserting our strongest crowbar, which was about four feet long
and had a curved end, we both bore all our weight against it to break
the door from its unseen fastenings. Time after time, yo-hoing like
sailors and springing our full weight upon the bar, we endeavoured to
force the stout old door, but alas! to no avail.
It then occurred to us that it opened into the room wherein we stood,
but on examination of the wall, now broken through to the size of half a
man’s hand, we discovered that it opened either way.
Suddenly another idea struck the ingenious Reilly. We had a screw-jack,
and perhaps by its use might be able to force the door inwards.
A long time elapsed before we could fix it sufficiently securely to bear
the enormous strain, but presently we got it adjusted, and began turning
it. Then very soon the groaning of the old oak told its tremendous
resistance and we steadily screwed on, until the creaking and splitting
of the wood showed the enormous pressure it was still bearing.
Of a sudden, however, without warning, there was a loud report like the
explosion of a cannon, as the bolts were broken off in their sockets,
and before us was open a dark hole from which a cloud of suffocating
dust belched forth into the room.
CHAPTER XXII
BLACK BENNETT
ON the previous night we had trimmed the hurricane lamp that I had
purchased in London as part of our equipment, therefore we soon had it
alight and eagerly entered the doorway to explore.
Reilly went first, bending low, lamp in one hand and a short crowbar in
the other, while I followed with an axe as one of the most useful of
implements.
The door had been forced from its fastenings and had gone far back upon
its hinges, almost uninjured, save that it was split in places and badly
twisted. Within we found a rough-walled, close-smelling chamber, about 4
ft. across and about 9 ft. long, low, dark as pitch, and, to our abject
disappointment, absolutely empty.
One object alone we found within—an old leather drinking mug, hard, dry
and cracked, that lay in one corner long forgotten.
Reilly’s idea was that the place was a “priests’ hole,” one of the
secret hiding-places of the Roman Catholic priests after the
Reformation, so often found in old houses, and in this I was inclined to
agree with him. Still, after a whole day’s work, and a hard one, too,
our raised hopes had only been dashed by a negative discovery. The wreck
we had made of the wall was appalling, and if we proceeded for long in
that manner I dreaded to think what might be the amount claimed for
dilapidations.
My young friend was, however, enthusiastic and nothing daunted. He lit a
cigarette and, puffing at it vigorously, silently regarded the yawning
hole in the wall.
“No doubt it was a place of concealment for those unfortunate Johnnies
who were so badly badgered after Henry VIII’s decree,” he remarked. “Old
Bartholomew was a staunch Catholic and, of course, in his house any
priest found shelter and concealment who asked for it. That accounts for
the mug being there. The last man who occupied the place before it was
closed up and plastered over probably drank his ale out of it.”
“Well,” I said, disappointedly, “we’ve made a pretty mess, and we’d best
start to clear it up tidily before we do anything more. Method is
everything in a complete search like this.”
“Of course,” was my young friend’s remark; “only I wish we could get a
sight of that parchment which that drunken sot sold for half a
sovereign. If we could, we shouldn’t go on working in the dark like
this.”
“Ah, Philip,” I said, with a sigh, “we shall never get sight of that, I
fear. Purvis and his friends keep it too safely guarded.”
“I wonder if they know that we are tenants of this place?”
“Probably. Kenway wrote to him two days ago.”
“Then, knowing the kind of men they are, I feel rather apprehensive that
they may endeavour to turn us out, or do something desperate.”
“Let them try!” I laughed. “We’ve both got revolvers, and neither of us
would be afraid to use them if the worst came.”
“We must mind they don’t take us unawares. Men like that never fight
square. Bennett has the ingenuity of the Evil One himself.”
I reflected for a moment, then said:—
“If we only knew the identity of the victim of the tragedy and could
establish his death we might have the whole crowd under arrest.”
“Yes. But how can we establish his identity?” Reilly queried. “They were
smart enough to dispose of the body successfully.”
“But if the police made inquiries they might discover the cabman who was
called, and by that means find out what had been done with the trunk.”
“No,” replied the young bank clerk. “That girl Bristowe could tell us a
lot if she wished. You know her—why not try to pump her? I don’t think
it would be difficult to discover something from her, for she was
horror-struck when they revealed to her the poor fellow’s fate.”
His suggestion seemed an excellent one, but not at present practicable.
We were at that moment in possession of a house which our enemies were
straining every nerve to search, like ourselves. Surely it was not
policy to leave it at that juncture, empty and at their mercy. Reilly
did not care to remain alone in charge, and certainly I was by no means
anxious to live in that awful, depressing place without a companion.
A careful review of the position impressed upon us the necessity of
continuing our search. We possessed certain documentary evidence which
showed, first, that a treasure had been stored away; secondly, that it
had been stored in a place of safety, with the Knuttons as guardians;
thirdly, that the Knuttons had been installed by Bartholomew himself in
the Manor Farm, the old house in close proximity. Therefore we could
arrive at but one conclusion, namely, that the treasure was stored upon
the premises now in our possession. If not, why had the Knuttons been
established there? Richard Knutton, of the Port of Sandwich, who was
Bartholomew’s trusted lieutenant, would surely be placed on guard in the
vicinity of the secret hiding-place. Sea-dogs they all were, and clever
ones too. Probably few had seen more hand-to-hand fighting and more
fierce bloodshed than the seven signatories, and their prize money had
undoubtedly amounted to a handsome sum.
Reilly was impatient and rather headstrong. He made lots of wild
suggestions. If Purvis and his friends had hired burglars to search his
uncle’s study, why should we not, by similar means, try and possess
ourselves of that all-important document which the drunken Knutton had
sold to our enemies? Which argument was, of course, logical, but it did
not appeal to me. My own opinion was that if we acted firmly, with
caution and patience, we should one day satisfactorily clear up the
mystery. Still, our position was irksome, for we dared not to leave the
place for long together, fearing that our enemies might be working
against us in secret.
Through several days we continued our search, taking up the worm-eaten
floor boards, but exposing nothing more interesting than rat runs;
wrenching out the old oak panelling, and searching for any
hollow-sounding places in the walls. Our investigation was certainly
thorough, for we took room by room, methodically measuring, sounding,
and making openings everywhere.
One morning the rural postman brought me a letter from Seal, explaining
that the _Thrush_ had at last gone into dry dock, where she would remain
for three weeks at least to be scraped and patched, therefore he was
coming down next day to help us. This was good news, for with three of
us on guard we could each be allowed more liberty. So I went over to
Uppingham again and purchased another camp bed and some cheap furniture,
sufficient to make us up a sitting-room. That same night it arrived, and
we then turned one of the smaller rooms on the ground floor into a
smoking-room, with three cane chairs, a table, and a window-blind.
I met Seal at Rockingham Station on the following day.
“What ho, sonny!” the burly skipper cried, rolling his huge carcass from
the train and slapping his great hand into mine. “My kit’s in the van
there. Thought you hadn’t got a bed for me, so I brought my own and a
few other things,” and at the same moment I saw, pitched out upon the
platform, a sailor’s hold-all lashed with rope.
“Well, captain,” I said, after giving instructions to the railway porter
to wheel the skipper’s luggage up to the Manor House, “and how are you?”
“Fit as a fiddle, doctor,” and his bronzed face broadened and beamed;
“you cured that rheumatism of mine.” Then he halted and inhaled the air
deeply. “Christmas!” he exclaimed; “this does a chap good, after too
much sea. I can smell them flowers,” and he glanced at some growing in
the station-master’s garden. “I never see flowers, you know, doctor.”
Together we crossed the bridge and entered the village. The bluff old
fellow was dressed, as usual, in blue serge, with a big silver
watch-chain, of cable pattern, across his waistcoat, and his nautical
cap stuck slightly askew, ridiculously small for his enormous head.
“Seen anything more of them other swabs?” he asked, as he rolled along
at my side.
“We’ve heard plenty about them,” I answered, “but have seen nothing.”
“They’d better not show their ugly mugs while I’m here,” he retorted,
meaningly.
I laughed. Seal’s roar of anger would in itself be sufficient to
frighten away the whole of Purvis and Company.
When I took him into the grass-grown yard of the old house he looked the
place up and down, and remarked:—
“A bit dilapidated, ain’t it? I should reckon we might overhaul a ghost
or two inside if we had a mind to.”
“Ah, you’re superstitious, captain,” I said. “Mr. Reilly doesn’t believe
in ghosts any more than I do. Come along and be introduced to him.”
We found Philip smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper under a tree
in the tangled old garden. Then, when I had made the introduction, Seal
said:—
“Glad to make your acquaintance, sir. Toughish job this, ain’t it? You
don’t seem to have much luck up to the present. At every port I touched
I expected to hear that you had found the stuff and bagged it.”
“You are best off, I think, captain,” I remarked.
“Up to now, yes. I sold my lot the day before yesterday to a dealer in
Piccadilly for eight hundred and forty-six quid, and I’ve put that money
safe in the bank,” he said, with evident satisfaction. “I’d rather have
modern money than a collection of old coins. But I’d like to see you get
your whack out of it, doctor. You deserve it—you do.”
“Well,” I said, “we’re having a good try to find where it is hidden.”
And then we took him inside and showed him how we were pulling the old
place to pieces.
“Jehoshaphat!” he ejaculated, with a whistle. “You’re making a pretty
fine mess, and no gammon! The landlord’s hair will stand on end when he
sees it.”
“I expect so,” I laughed. “But now we’ve started we must go through with
it—and you must help us.”
“Help yer? Why, of course. Shiver me, we’ll pull the whole crazy house
down, if you like.”
The porter had delivered the skipper’s sack, so we carried it up to the
room we had prepared for him adjoining ours.
“Wait, you chaps, till I’ve unlashed my kit,” he said, addressing us,
and bending over the white canvas sack he quickly uncorded it and began
to unpack.
It was filled with a collection of articles that surprised us. Not only
had he brought his bed, but also his big yellow oilskin, “in case the
weather was dirty,” he informed us. Three fine melons, from Algiers,
rolled across the floor; a box of cigars was handed to each of us, as a
present, and then, from careful wrappings, he produced two
wicker-covered bottles of Black Head rum.
“Now, mates!” he cried, “get three glasses, and we’ll drink success to
this outcome o’ Noah’s Ark.”
Rum was not our habitual beverage before one o’clock in the day, but in
order to show our appreciation of his goodwill we each tossed down a
little of the neat spirit after he had chinked his glass with ours,
saying:—
“’Ere’s luck to all three of us, and a thousand of Old Nick’s best brand
o’ curses on them swabs.”
Having locked up the place securely, as we always did during our
temporary absences, we took Seal round to the Plough, where we sat
together in the little back parlour and, amid boisterous laughter,
lunched off cold roast beef and mashed potatoes, our usual fare, for the
menu of that rural hostelry was not very extensive.
The skipper, whose normal state was one of hunger, ate with an enormous
appetite, smacking his lips and declaring that after food afloat a bit
of real English beef was very toothsome. And so it was. I recollected
well the culinary arrangements of the _Thrush_, and the greasy, gritty,
unappetizing dishes that sometimes came from the galley for our
approval.
The home-brewed ale was a change, too, after his eternal “noggins,” and
a thirst being upon him he swallowed several glasses with great gusto.
Then, when we smoked and his big bronzed face beamed through the
suffocating cloud, he told us that we were certainly giving him a good
time.
We had been laughing at some quaint remark of the skipper’s, and as the
peal of merriment had subsided the innkeeper’s sister who waited upon us
entered to clear off the plates. As she did so the sound of a man’s
gruff voice, in conversation, reached us from the bar outside.
Seal’s jaw dropped in an instant. The merriment died out of his face. He
listened for a moment as though to make certain, then springing from his
chair he passed through the doorway, in order, I suppose, to get sight
of the stranger.
I had watched the skipper’s countenance and had noticed the puzzled
expression on it.
Next instant he was back with us, returning on tiptoe. The young woman
had gone out, and he closed the door quietly behind her. Then, turning
to us, he said, in a low, hoarse voice of alarm, his countenance
entirely changed:—
“Look here, lads! This is a blessed sight more than I bargained for when
I offered to come down and give yer a hand. Why, Black Bennett’s here!
Black Bennett!” he added, looking at our puzzled faces. “Black Bennett!
Don’t you understand?”
CHAPTER XXIII
JOB SEAL RELATES HIS ADVENTURES
WE admitted that we did not understand.
“I’ve heard of this Black Bennett,” I said in surprise, “but who is he?
Tell us.”
“Who is he?” growled Seal, knitting his shaggy brows darkly. “Who is he?
Why, he’s about the worst swab I’ve ever met—and that’s saying a good
deal!”
“But what is there against him?” I demanded anxiously.
“Almost everything short of murder. Christmas! I didn’t know that he was
mixed up in this affair. You will have to be cute, doctor, for if Black
Bennett’s one of ’em you can bet your boots that the crowd ain’t
particular good company.”
“Well,” I said, “I’d like to get a glance at this very interesting
person.” And, rising, I opened the door and passed through into the bar
on the pretext of obtaining some matches.
The man, who was seated on the edge of the beery table smoking a briar
and drinking a tankard of ale, gave me the impression of an idle
lounger. He was above the average height, with a round, red face, grey
hair and beard, and dressed in what appeared to me to be a ready-made
suit of dark tweed. His straw hat was browned by the sun and much the
worse for wear. As I entered he glanced at me quickly with his keen dark
eyes; then, turning as though he did not recognize me, he lifted his
glass and took a deep drink.
In the fellow’s appearance there was certainly little to recommend him.
I did not like his eyes. His round, ruddy face would have passed as that
of an easy-going, contented man, had it not been for the hard, cruel
expression when he had glanced at me. I noticed his hands. One held his
pipe and the other rested upon the edge of the table. He carried it
three parts doubled up, with the nails pointing in towards the palm,
while on his knuckles were old scars. These signs told me at once that
he was a sailor, although there was nothing nautical about his dress.
The drawn-up hand betrayed constant rope-hauling, and the scars were
those of old salt cracks which the water had made on his hands in his
early days at sea.
Having obtained the matches I rejoined my companions, whereupon Reilly
slipped out through the stable yard and was absent only a minute or two.
When he returned he said to us in a low voice, “Yes; that’s the man who
struck Miss Bristowe. I’d recognize him among a million.” And at that
moment we heard the man wish the landlady “good-day” and depart.
Then, at my suggestion, Reilly related to Seal all that he had witnessed
on that memorable night at Kilburn.
“You think that Bennett killed the poor fellow?” the skipper said,
between long reflective puffs at his cigar.
“I certainly believe he is the murderer,” was the other’s reply. “But at
present we can charge them with nothing. We have no tangible evidence of
a crime.”
“The girl—what’s her name—could tell you sufficient to gaol the lot of
’em,” was Job Seal’s rejoinder. “She knows all about it. The dead man
was her lover without a doubt.”
“I could recognize the victim if I saw his photograph,” Reilly declared.
“I’ll never forget that ghastly white face till my dying day.”
“I wonder where they disposed of the body?” I queried. “We must keep our
eyes on the papers for any discovery. If they left it at a cloak-room it
must be found sooner or later.”
What Reilly had related gave the skipper of the _Thrush_ evident
satisfaction.
“You’ve got the best side o’ them swabs, Mr. Reilly, if you’re only
careful. They’re in ignorance of what you’ve seen. Excellent! All you do
now is to wait; but in the meantime be very careful that these men don’t
get the better of you.”
“I can’t imagine how the Mysterious Man could have given us that
warning,” I remarked, afterwards explaining to Seal the words that the
madman had written: “Beware of Black Bennett!”
“Ah!” exclaimed the skipper, “there’s no tellin’ what Old Mister Mystery
knows. He’s a son of Davy Jones himself, I really believe.”
“You hold the old fellow in superstitious dread, captain,” I laughed.
“Well,” responded the skipper bluntly, “the old fire-eater with his
rusty sword may be a couple of hundred years old, for all we know.”
“But what can he possibly know about this man Bennett?”
“What can he know? Why, what other people know—what I know. I sailed
with him once, and it was a lively trip, I can tell you,” growled the
old skipper, sucking his teeth, a habit of his when any recollection of
the past was unpleasant.
“I’m anxious to know all about him,” I said. “Tell us the story,
captain.”
“Well, it’s nigh twenty years ago now since I first made the
acquaintance of Black Bennett. I was sailing in the brig _Maria Martin_,
of Liverpool, in those days, and one night while we were lying at Naples
an English sailor was shipped, while drunk, as a forecastle hand. He
turned out to be Bennett. We were bound for the Cape of Good Hope, but
long before we reached Gib. our new hand had turned the craft
topsy-turvy. He wouldn’t work, notwithstanding the strong language of
the first mate—and he could swear a brick wall down—and for days and
days he only lay in his bunk smoking like a philosopher. I was sent to
clear him out, and he sprang at me like a tiger. There was a tussle,
and—well, I needn’t describe the rounds we had, except to say that my
reach proved a bit too long for him, and he lay insensible for an hour.
That was the beginning of bad blood between us; he never liked me
afterwards. When he came to he called a meeting of the men, and in an
hour the whole bloomin’ crew were in mutiny. The skipper, chief mate,
and myself armed ourselves, and expected some shooting, for they were
about six to one, so the struggle wasn’t very fair. This continued until
we were off the West Coast of Africa, when Bennett, as leader of the
mutineers, proved himself a perfect fiend.
“His first move was to send one of the apprentices secretly to the
skipper’s cabin for the ship’s papers, and having obtained them he
weighted them with a lump of iron and, after exhibiting them to the
captain, calmly pitched the lot overboard. Our skipper almost went mad.
He danced with rage like a bear at a show, all the hands laughing at
him. Well, after that the mutineers took possession of the craft,
clapped us all three in our cabins, and then broached the rum and other
spirits we had aboard. Sails were reefed, and we lay to for nearly a
week while the whole crew were roaring drunk. Then a little bad weather
sobered them, and they ran in shore. Within sight of land a boat was
lowered, into which they placed us, tossing some of our belongings after
us, and then sent us adrift. Fortunately they had given us a pair of
oars, and we rowed ashore. It was a tropical country, we found, and as
we beached the boat we saw that the brig had altered her course, and was
steering straight out across the Atlantic. The natives proved friendly,
and after some wanderings in the forests we were guided by a black boy
to the English settlement of Cape Coast Castle. Before the Governor we
related our experiences, and after some weeks were sent home to London.
“That was my first acquaintance with Black Bennett, the most brutal of
all skippers.”
“And what became of the _Maria Martin_?”
“She was found about three years afterwards aground and abandoned a few
miles south of Rio. According to the report to the Board of Trade there
were evidences that Black Bennett and his men had run her as a pirate,
making havoc with the Brazilian coasting trade, but as nothing was seen
of him in England the authorities were powerless. Next he was heard of
in New York, where he shipped under an assumed name on a German steamer
bound for Sydney. The German skipper was pleased at shipping a whole
crowd of tough English sailors, but before he had got half-way across
the Atlantic he had a very rude awakening. The new hands were none other
than Black Bennett and his men, and they made fine sport of that Hamburg
steamer. There was some powder-play that time, and more than one on both
sides went to Davy Jones. But in the end Bennett took command, set the
Germans adrift near Mauritius, and then, steering back to Buenos Ayres,
they unshipped the cargo and eventually sold it. Afterwards Bennett and
his crew steamed away to Australia, and there became engaged in the
Kanaka labour trade—a kind of genteel slave-trade. Five years ago, when
my owners made Leghorn a final port of discharge on account of the
cheapness of Italian hands and the fact that they don’t get drunk,
Bennett tried to ship with me, intending, no doubt, to play his tricks
with the _Thrush_. Fortunately I recognized him, told Mr. Carmichael,
the British Consul, and the result was that he made himself scarce out
of Leghorn pretty quickly. Oh, yes,” added Seal, “Black Bennett is an
ingenious rogue, I can tell you.”
“But I thought piracy was dead in these days,” I remarked.
“So it is. But it wasn’t fifteen years ago. They didn’t wear cutlasses
and overhaul ships, but they knew a trick worth two of that. They seized
the ship on which they sailed, repainted her, altered her appearance,
gave her a new name and port, and eventually sold her to some foreigner.
They, however, sailed under the black flag all the same.”
“But what do you think Bennett’s game is now?” asked Reilly.
“To get the better of you in this search. He’s evidently aware of the
existence of the Italian’s treasure, and intends to have it. All I warn
you of is that he’s a treacherous friend and a formidable enemy.”
“But if you assist us, captain, we need have no fear,” I remarked.
“There’s bad blood between us, doctor,” he answered dubiously. “If we
met, something might happen,” he added meaningly.
“But haven’t we sufficient evidence to place before the police?” I
suggested.
“How can you prove it?” he asked, settling himself seriously. “I could,
of course, prove the seizing of the _Maria Martin_ twenty years ago, but
even then the case might fall through. Besides, we have no time to lose
just now in the work we’ve undertaken. Again,” he added, “if we were
arrested, he would most certainly declare that you were searching after
treasure, and the Jew who owns the Manor House would at once put a stop
to your little game, while the Treasury would keep a pretty watchful eye
on you for treasure-trove. No, doctor, we must hold our tongues for the
present, and pretend to know absolutely nothing.”
“But Purvis? Have you ever heard his name?”
“No. I expect, however, he’s one of the gang. Perhaps Old Mister Mystery
has had something to do with the piratical crew at one time or another.
That would account for his mind wandering back to Black Bennett.”
This theory seemed a sound one. It was evident that the
old-man-of-the-sea entertained no very good feeling towards the man of
whom he had warned us. The mystery was, however, how Purvis, Bennett,
and the rest had obtained knowledge of the Italian’s hoard.
The only way I could account for it was the deep and curious interest
which that rather superior seaman, Harding, had taken in the documents
before he had left the _Thrush_. I had not forgotten the apparently easy
manner in which he had read off the old documents, nor his insolence
towards me when I remonstrated with him.
I saw, too, that Seal, the intrepid skipper, the deep-voiced man whom
nothing daunted, had been seized by a curious and incomprehensible
anxiety now that he recognized who was our rival in this exciting
search.
I felt sure that he had not told us all he knew concerning the red-faced
man who was watching our movements so closely.
Why was he concealing the truth from us?
CHAPTER XXIV
THE MYSTERY OF MARGARET KNUTTON
WE returned to the Manor, and Seal, refreshed by his lunch, seized a
crowbar and wielding it with his great strength announced himself ready
to assist us.
Like ourselves, he felt certain that, the treasure being hidden
somewhere in that house, diligent search would have its reward. So he
started on his own account tapping walls and investigating loose boards
and hollow wainscotting.
We had seen no more of Bennett. He had come to the Plough probably with
the object of ascertaining who we were, and had departed as quietly as
he had come. Indeed, we should have been in ignorance of his visit had
it not been that the skipper had recognized his voice. Job Seal had a
very quick ear. He had told me long ago on board the _Thrush_ that if he
heard a man’s voice once he could recognize it again years afterwards.
Sometimes partial blindness goes with that faculty, but not so in Seal’s
case. No man had quicker eye or ear.
After half an hour’s search the skipper hit upon a likely spot which we
had overlooked. At one end of the corridor, which upstairs ran the whole
length of the house, was a small diamond-paned window, while at the
other was a blank wall. The latter, when tapped, gave forth a hollow
sound. There was a second spot of which we had also suspicion, namely,
at the side of the fireplace in the modernized dining-room below.
Upon the latter we commenced first, all three of us working with a will.
The afternoon was hot, therefore Seal threw off his coat and vest,
rolled up his sleeves, and, blowing like a walrus, wielded the hammer
necessary to drive the chisel into the wall.
Before long we had broken into the hollow, but again only disappointment
awaited us. It was merely one of those little long cupboards which are
so often seen beside the fireplaces in old houses. Upon the shelf within
was plenty of dust, but only one object, a well-preserved halfpenny
bearing the effigy of King Charles II.
“That’s for luck!” Seal cried humorously. “Let’s try upstairs, lads.”
So up we went, all three of us, and attacked the hollow place in that
outer wall. The task was not so easy as that we had just concluded, for
it seemed that only a small portion of the wall had been filled with
plaster, the rest being very hard concrete, which we had to chip out
laboriously with hammer and chisel.
The skipper was, however, enthusiastic in his new sphere. From
navigating the _Thrush_ he had turned housebreaker, and the fact that
the treasure might be there concealed added a keen zest to the work of
investigation. He worked, puffing and blowing, until the perspiration
rolled off his great furrowed face. The part he had attacked was a
particularly hard piece of concrete, which he was painfully chipping
out. The plaster we had already removed disclosed a sheet of rusty iron,
probably placed over a door, and its discovery had excited the skipper
greatly. He expressed himself confident that we were on the verge of a
discovery. And so we were.
The dust we raised was suffocating, while the chips of concrete flying
in all directions proved a source of considerable danger to one’s eyes.
A piece went into Reilly’s left eye, but we quickly dislodged it, and we
continued to work on, eager to ascertain what was concealed behind that
iron-cased door.
The previous door we had opened had been a labour in vain, but the iron
upon this one had raised our hopes, and we all worked with a will,
cutting out of the wall a piece nearly four feet square.
Seal with our long crowbar attacked the iron itself. When he struck it
the hollow sound was like an explosion.
“There’s a room in here, I’m sure!” cried the skipper.
Then, while we continued, he set to work with the measuring tape, taking
the distance from the door of the room to the wall we were attacking,
and afterwards measuring inside the room from the door to the end wall.
He found a considerable difference in the measurements, by which his
excitement was increased.
We worked on without breathing space, for the eager anticipation was
contagious. Yet we were compelled to progress by slow degrees and to
chip away bit by bit of that hard concrete which they knew how to make
so well centuries ago. It was almost as durable as stone itself.
At last we had cut it all away, and the dark iron-cased door stood
revealed to us, looking like a modern fire-proof safe, only that it was
not green and had no brass handle.
“Je-rusalem!” exclaimed the skipper, “I really believe this is the
actual place! Look how carefully it’s been concealed! And the iron door,
too. Let’s have it open, lads, if we have to pull down the bloomin’
house to get at it. We’ll get the best of Bennett and those murderous
swabs yet!”
Again with his long crowbar he attacked the door, but it was unyielding.
Gradually, however, Reilly, working more slowly and carefully, was
enabled to wedge his chisel between the iron and the stonework. Then,
after some difficulty, the skipper’s long bar was wedged in the place,
and all three of us bore heavily upon it.
Once, twice, thrice we bore down, Seal giving us a sailor’s ahoy, and
all bearing together.
At last and of a sudden with a terrific wrench the bolts gave way, and
the door flew back with a crash and a cloud of dust, disclosing a small
room which had been walled up for centuries. The old house, indeed,
seemed full of secret chambers.
Reilly lit the hurricane lamp and handed it to me, for I was the first
to enter.
The moment I crossed the threshold into the dark little place, no bigger
than a good-sized cupboard, I drew back in horror.
On the floor in the thick dust lay a human skeleton!
“What’s the matter, doctor?” inquired the captain, entering quickly
after me.
“Look!” I cried. “Somebody has been walled up here! Look at those
bones.”
Seal glanced down to the corner I indicated, and the truth was at once
revealed to him. Instead of treasure concealed there, we saw evidence of
what was probably some long-forgotten crime.
Reilly was beside me in an instant, but there was hardly room for three
of us in the narrow place. I bent down and turned over the bones to
examine them more closely. The skeleton was doubled up, as though death
had taken place from hunger rather than from want of air.
As I held the light something sparkled, and bending I saw that upon the
finger-bones stretched in the dust there still remained three splendid
rings. These and the size of the skull and certain of the other bones
quickly told me that the person immured there had been a woman.
The three rings I took in my hand and examined them out in the daylight.
They were dull and tarnished, but the diamonds in two of them were
extremely fine ones, while the third was a signet, upon which was graven
the leopard rampant of Da Schorno. With the skeleton was a quantity of
silk rags, the remains of the rich brocade dress worn by the victim at
the time she was imprisoned there.
The discovery made a deep impression upon the superstitious skipper.
Nevertheless, he assisted us to make a close and thorough search of the
place. From what we found it was evident that the unfortunate woman had
been entrapped there and shut up to die. From the remains of the ragged
and brown garments we came to the conclusion that the tragedy had
occurred back in the old Elizabethan days, for there were the distinct
remains of a ruffle, while scattered about were pearls from a broken
string. So long ago, indeed, had the unfortunate woman been placed there
to linger until death released her that now, open to the air, the bones
were crumbling. The hair on the scalp was still long and almost black,
while entangled in it was a small but beautiful rope of pearls of a kind
that was the fashion for women to wear in the later days of Queen Bess.
“I suppose it’s her ghost that haunts the place,” laughed Reilly, as he
assisted me to turn over the gruesome remains.
“What?” asked Seal seriously. “Is this house haunted?”
“Oh, the villagers say so,” was the reply; “but we’ve never seen
anything, and are not likely to.”
“Well, whoever placed the woman there took very good care to conceal her
whereabouts,” Seal remarked.
“Yes,” I said. “Without doubt the poor woman was entrapped and then
walled up.”
“The same as I’ve heard certain nuns were treated in the old days before
the Reformation,” Reilly said. “I’ve read of remains of women being
found walled up in convents.”
“Well, in this case death was certainly not voluntary. You see there is
no crucifix or image of any saint,” and, re-entering, I raised the
lantern and examined the rough plastered walls. Suddenly my eyes caught
a faint inscription scratched with some sharp instrument on the wall. It
told me two things: first, that the woman before her death had a light
there; and, second, it gave the name of the victim—
“Margaret Knutton.”
The writing was in that upright Elizabethan character, and below was an
elaborate flourish. There was no date, only the name, scratched probably
with one of the pieces of sharp stone that lay upon the rough floor.
My companions examined it with interest, and were of my opinion that it
had been traced by the hand of the woman before she sank and died.
Probably she had been held prisoner there for some time before her
death, because high up I discovered a small hole in the wall that seemed
to run through to the exterior and had once admitted air, but was now
blocked up. My examination, too, showed that the woman had had her right
arm broken in her youth, and that it had been set unskilfully.
The discovery was not only a complete surprise but also a bitter
disappointment, and when we all three had completed our examination of
that long-walled-up chamber we closed the door and regarded the great
hole in the wall with considerable regret.
We were playing sad havoc with the house, for scarcely a room did not
bear the marks of our chisels and crowbars.
Evening fell, and having washed at the pump we went across to the Plough
for supper. The day’s work had been unsatisfactory, and Seal was silent
and thoughtful, as was his habit when things went badly.
We had revealed one gruesome secret of the Manor House if nothing else.
We sat out in the tangled garden for an hour after our return. The sunny
place seemed to have lost its charm. The trail of decay and desolation
seemed more apparent than usual as my eyes travelled from the broken
sundial to the straggling flowers. On going indoors we smoked, the
skipper insisting that we should drink rum and hot water. The
conversation was mostly a discussion upon likely spots to be opened on
the morrow, for, although the captain had been bitterly disappointed, in
discovering bones instead of gold, he was still undaunted.
“The treasure is here, I feel sure,” he exclaimed a dozen times, in his
deep voice. “We’ll find it, as sure as my name’s Job Seal.”
The existence of those secret chambers had certainly raised our hopes,
yet we only longed for sight of that cipher plan which the drunken
Knutton had sold to our enemies. The only consolation we had was that
the plan in question was just as useless to them as it was to us.
That night, after several tots of the spirit which the skipper had
brought us, we retired to bed. The night was a perfect one, bright
moonlight without a leaf stirring, one of those calm nights when it
seems a pity to turn in.
I sleep heavily as a rule, and I must have been in bed three hours or so
when a touch on the shoulder suddenly awakened me, and I saw in the
moonlight the skipper, in his shirt and trousers, standing by me. A
revolver shone in his right hand.
“Wake up, doctor,” he whispered. “There’s something going on in this
house.”
He had already awakened Reilly, who was noiselessly slipping on his
clothes.
I started up and stared at him, as yet only half awake.
“Don’t kick up a row,” Seal urged, in a deep whisper. “Listen, do you
hear anything?”
A curious noise fell on my ear like slow sawing.
“It’s rats,” I declared. “This place is worse than the _Thrush_ for
them.”
“No, doctor, it ain’t. I know rats well enough. Where’s your pistol? You
may want it.”
I nipped out of bed, and in a couple of minutes stood ready, revolver in
hand. Awakened suddenly out of my sleep I moved mechanically, convinced
that the finding of the bones and the superstition of the skipper were
responsible for it all. But he was deadly in earnest, I saw, and I think
that aroused me to a true sense of the situation.
To move about without noise in an empty house is a rather difficult
matter, but we all three crept out into the corridor and listened.
The noise seemed to proceed from the centre room—the one wherein we had
first discovered a hidden chamber. We opened the door and entered
noiselessly.
Yes, the sound came distinctly from the secret hiding-place. Carefully
we pushed open the thick oak door and stepped inside.
The sawing stopped, but below where we stood we heard men’s voices
speaking in gruff undertones.
Our enemies were undermining the house!
CHAPTER XXV
REVEALS THE DEATH-TRAP
WE strained our ears to distinguish the words spoken by the men beneath
us, but without avail.
They seemed to be at work apparently in the thickness of the ponderous
wall some few feet below where we stood. Was it possible that they had
ascertained from their plan the place where the gold was hidden?
Sometimes it seemed as though they were working upwards towards us, for
we could hear a pick upon the stones; and so we waited there, as
terriers wait for rats.
Through the remainder of the night we kept a watchful vigil, but about
four o’clock in the morning the sounds ceased, and we concluded that
they had completed their work—at least for the present. We waited an
hour, and hearing no further sound resolved to open the flooring of the
place wherein we stood and investigate.
This did not take us long, for as soon as we had cut through the cement
we discovered, to our surprise, a wooden trap-door, and on pulling it up
there was disclosed a narrow winding-stair in the thickness of the wall,
leading down into the foundations of the house. The place smelt damp and
musty, and the up-draught blew out the naked candle which the skipper
held.
With Reilly holding his hurricane lamp, I descended the rough-hewn
stairs, revolver in hand, prepared for any attack. At the bottom, which
I judged to be on a level with the cellars, was a stout door that had
been recently sawn through, for the sawdust was fresh, and there lay
near by several candle-heads. The door had succumbed to the attack of
our enemies, and the latter, having opened a way into the house, had
evidently retired until the following night.
I chuckled to myself that we were forearmed against any secret attack,
and then went forward, finding myself in a dark and narrow tunnel built
round with rough stone and sloping downwards. In places the stonework
had given way, and it was with difficulty that I squeezed past the
fallen earth. Behind me came Reilly with the swinging lantern, the
skipper following us close in the rear.
Scarcely a word was uttered by either of us. We were in a long, tortuous
burrow that ran deep into the bowels of the earth. I had often read of
subterranean passages made in ancient days to provide secret means of
egress, but to traverse one was an entirely new and exciting experience.
Bennett and his accomplices had left some of their tools near the scene
of their operations, thus showing that they intended to return. But the
passage seemed never-ending, now ascending, and again descending
sharply. In places water percolated through the roof and fell in cold
showers upon us as we passed, while beneath our feet it ran in a small
channel onward before us.
On we went, determined to trace the burrow to its end, when, having gone
fully a quarter of a mile, I suddenly stumbled, lost my breath, and
found myself falling through space into a Stygian darkness. A moment
later I struck water, and with my hands frantically clutched at some
slimy stones around.
Where I was I had no idea, for the darkness there was impenetrable. I
only felt my body in water that was icy cold, and my hands slipping in
the thick slime. I cried out loudly for help, and heard the skipper’s
answering shout.
“Are you hurt, doctor?” I heard him inquire, and looking up I saw the
light shining like a star far above me, and the form of my two
companions peering down.
Then I knew the truth. I had fallen into a well which, dug right across
the path, served as a man-trap to any traversing the tunnel with hostile
purpose.
I shouted back to them to return to the house and get ropes.
“Can you hold on?” Reilly inquired.
“Not for long,” I answered, for the cold was already cramping my limbs,
and in that blackness I dared not move, lest my grip should slip and I
should sink. Near me water trickled; beyond that there was no other
sound. The air, too, was bad, although, fortunately, it was not
poisonous, as is so often the case in wells. The tunnel above was well
ventilated, for in places the draught was quite strong, showing that at
the end it was open to the air.
Above, my companions held consultation. There was but one lamp, and
whoever went back would be compelled to take it. Reilly, being fleet of
foot, sped away, leaving the skipper lying full length with his head
peering over the edge of the abyss.
He tried to cheer me and keep up my spirits, but I knew from the tremor
in his voice how anxious he was.
“Them swabs bridged this place over with planks,” he informed me. “But
when they retired they drew back the boards after them. Keep up your
pecker, doctor, Mr. Reilly will be back in a moment and we’ll soon haul
you out.”
“I’m cold,” I said wearily.
“Don’t think of it,” came his cheery voice through the darkness. “You’re
going to have a drop o’ grog hot when you come up. We can’t see you from
up here. How far are you down?”
I guessed at about seventy feet, and told him so. But, of course,
distances are very deceptive in the dark.
The minutes seemed hours, and a dozen times I felt that my strength must
fail before the return of Reilly. But at last I saw a welcome glimmer of
light above, and gradually it approached me, let down by a string.
Then I realized my desperate position. Half submerged in the black
water, I had only been saved by a jutting piece of stone to which I was
clinging. Save for this one piece, all else was smooth and covered with
a thick grey slime, while from the light blind newts and strange
creeping things scuttled away into their holes in the stones.
Very quickly a rope was dangling near me, and after some effort, my
limbs being so cramped, I succeeded in securing it round my waist.
Then, having given the signal, my two friends hauled me out of the
death-trap.
Across the abyss there lay two planks that had been used by Bennett and
his men, but, not being able to reach them, we all three returned to the
house, where I changed my clothes and took a nip of brandy to steady my
nerves. My revolver I had lost at the bottom of the well.
Eager to explore the tunnel to its end, my companions obtained two stout
planks from the out-house and presently we retraced our steps in slow
procession until we came to the death-trap. This we succeeded in
bridging successfully, and then continued onward, stumbling over mounds
of fallen earth and squeezing through places where the tunnel had
collapsed.
Certainly, whoever built the Manor House, whether old Bartholomew or
some one before him, had taken precaution to provide a secret mode of
egress. For nearly a mile the burrow ran, and although we held the
lantern close to the ground, we discovered no other trap for the unwary.
Suddenly the narrow way began to ascend, slowly at first, then abruptly.
A strange noise caused us to halt and listen. Horses’ hoofs and wheels
sounded above us. We were beneath a highway.
At last we came to a flight of rough-hewn stone steps leading straight
up, with a closed door. We only spoke in whispers, and I, walking first,
ascended and tried the latch. It yielded.
Slowly I opened the door, but it creaked upon its hinges, and to our
dazzled eyes shone the light of day. Then I slipped through, followed by
the others, and we found ourselves beneath a large barn.
This did not take us many minutes to explore, for peering out at the
open door we found ourselves in a small farmyard, amid unfamiliar
surroundings. The farmhouse, a long, low, thatched place half hidden by
roses, lay a little distance off, and as we watched in secret we saw
before the house a young girl with cotton sun-bonnet feeding a flock of
cackling geese.
We were undecided how to act. It was clear that this was the
starting-point of our enemies. Beyond the house lay a small village
surrounding a church, therefore it was agreed that while Reilly went
into the place to make inquiry as to the occupants of the farm, I should
conceal myself with the skipper somewhere in the immediate vicinity.
Therefore, one by one we slipped from beneath the barn, and crossed
unnoticed to a small spinney in the rear. From a point of vantage we
were afforded a good view of the farm premises, and while I waited with
Seal, Reilly took a roundabout route to the village.
We lit our pipes, and, concealed amid the undergrowth, waited and
watched. The house seemed a pleasant, old-fashioned one, but, with the
exception of an aged labourer in a smock and the goose-girl, there
seemed no sign of life. It was just after nine o’clock, a beautiful
bright morning, and in the small garden there was a wealth of cottage
flowers, the fresh scent of which reached us even in our hiding-place.
The barn beneath which the subterranean passage ended was very old, with
patched roof and blackened gables, dating from the same period as the
farmhouse, with its mullioned windows and small green diamond panes.
Some of the windows had, however, been blocked up in order to avoid the
window tax of long ago.
Nearly an hour had passed, and Seal had been yawning, as was his wont,
when of a sudden a neat female figure in dark blue appeared in the
garden, stooping to gather flowers. She wore a large straw hat which
flopped over her face, but as I looked she raised her head in my
direction, and I uttered a cry of surprise.
The figure was none other than that of Miss Bristowe.
“Look!” I cried, to Seal. “Look at that girl in the garden. That’s Miss
Bristowe.”
The old skipper shaded his eyes with his hands, then ejaculated:—
“Je-hoshaphat! She’s a stunning fine woman, that she is! Then it’s her
lover who’s missing?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder what she’s doing here?”
“Ah, that’s the mystery!” I said, watching her gathering the
old-fashioned flowers into a great posy.
“You’ll need to have a chat with her, doctor. If she likes she can tell
us a lot, that’s certain.”
“But she won’t,” was my response.
“She may, now that the rascals have made away with the man she loves.”
“But don’t you recollect what Reilly overheard?” I said. “It seems that,
in obedience to the orders of the gang, she deceived him and enticed
him, so that he fell into their hands. By that they managed to make her
an accessory in the crime, and so ensure her secrecy.”
“That’s a bit of Black Bennett’s cunning ingenuity. He’s always artful
enough to fix the blame on other people, which accounts for his
hair-breadth escapes from the police.”
The girl, having gathered sufficient flowers, halted and, leaning her
arms upon a small gate, looked wistfully away across the fields. I was
near enough to see how wan and pale was her face, and how haggard and
worn she seemed. A great change had been wrought in her since our first
meeting in that dingy little consulting-room at Walworth.
She had been my friend then. Was she still? I had never ceased to think
of her even in the wild excitement of that search after fortune. That
pale, beautiful face was ever before me. Those dark, wistful eyes, that
told of a dread secret hidden within her heart, seemed everywhere to
gaze into mine, just as they had gazed on the last occasion we had met.
I confess to you, my reader, that I loved her—yet she was
unapproachable.
CHAPTER XXVI
IN WHICH BEN KNUTTON GROWS CONFIDENTIAL
REILLY returned shortly afterwards with a budget of information. When we
had traversed the little wood and were out on the highway he told us
certain facts that were interesting.
The village was called Bringhurst, distant a mile and a quarter from
Caldecott. The place where we had emerged was called the Glebe Farm, and
was occupied by an old man called Page, who had as lodgers a gentleman
named Purvis and his niece. They often had visitors, two gentlemen who
came over from Kettering, and from their description one was Bennett.
Purvis had lived there on and off for three weeks, but the young lady
had only recently come.
Reilly had learned all this at the little beerhouse at Bringhurst. And
he had learned something more, namely, that there was some village
gossip regarding the young lady.
“Gossip!” I demanded. “What is it?”
“Well,” answered Reilly, “the old innkeeper says that she’s been seen
out walking late at night with that drunken scamp who sold Purvis the
parchment.”
“What!” I cried. “With old Ben Knutton, of Rockingham?”
“That’s so.”
“Then he knows her,” I exclaimed, quickly. “He’ll be able to tell me
something. I must see him to-day. A pot or two of beer will make him
talk.”
According to Reilly the villagers of Bringhurst had no suspicion of the
reason Purvis lived at the Glebe Farm, nor were they aware of the
existence of the secret communication between the two villages. It was
certain, however, that Purvis and Bennett knew of it, and for that
reason the former had taken up his quarters there. The man Page was
probably unaware of the tunnel, for it led from beneath his barn with
the entry well concealed. One fact, however, I had not overlooked. At
the bottom of the steps which led up to the surface a wall had been
recently broken down, showing that the tunnel had been closed up for
years and had only recently been opened.
The men who had worked so assiduously during the night were probably
within the farmhouse. At any rate, on our walk back to Caldecott along
the white highway through the village of Great Easton we saw nothing of
them.
When we returned to the Manor a ridiculous position presented itself. We
were locked out! All windows and doors we had barred on the inside;
therefore Reilly, an adept at scaling walls, clambered up a rain-spout
and effected an entrance by one of the upper windows.
We took counsel together and arrived at two conclusions, namely, that
our rivals had by some means obtained possession of the secret of the
underground passage, and, secondly, that they, like ourselves, were
convinced that the treasure lay hidden upon the premises we occupied.
This caused our excitement to increase rather than diminish; but after
lunch at the Plough I strolled down to Rockingham, while my companions
returned to resume their investigations.
I found that Ben Knutton was at work. He was cleaning out a ditch on the
edge of Thoroughsale Wood, and I was directed to the spot, about a mile
away. I discovered the old fellow without much difficulty, and my
appearance there was something of a surprise to him.
At my request he put down his spade and came to the stile whereon I
seated myself.
“Well, Knutton,” I said, “I’ve come to have another little chat with
you—a confidential chat, you understand. Now look here, before we begin
I’ve one thing to say, and that is if you answer all my questions
truthfully there’s half a sovereign for you.”
“Thankee, sir,” responded the bibulous old rascal, touching his hat.
“What did you want to know, sir?”
“Listen,” I said. “There’s a young lady staying over at Mr. Page’s at
Bringhurst. You know her?”
“Yes, sir, I knows ’er. I’ve knowed ’er since she were a little girl.”
“Then tell me all about her,” I said.
“Well, there ain’t very much to tell,” responded the old man. “I don’t
know who was ’er father. She came to my sister-in-law as a nurse-child
from London when she was about two years old. They say ’er father and
mother were rich people. But Fanny Stanion, my sister-in-law, who lived
over at Deenethorpe, brought her up, and got paid for it by a lawyer in
Oundle. You don’t know Deenethorpe. It’s about five miles from here.”
“Near Deene?” I suggested, for I had been photographing in Lady
Cardigan’s beautiful park.
“Yes, close by,” was the labourer’s reply. “Fanny had ’er with ’er nigh
on twelve years and was like a mother to ’er, and often brought ’er over
to Rockingham to see us. Then, when Fanny died, she was sent back to
London, an’ some lady, I believe, took charge of ’er and sent her to
boardin’ school somewhere in Devonshire. I ain’t seen little Dolly these
seven years till the other day when she came to my cottage. My! Ain’t
she grown to be a fine young ’ooman? I didn’t know ’er ag’in,” and the
old man leaned upon the rail and laughed. Men who work in the fields at
all hours and in hot and cold weather age very early; the furrows grow
deep on their faces and the skin is crossed and recrossed with
multitudinous lines like a spider’s web, the spine gets bent from the
long hours of stooping over the earth, and the heat and the damp and the
frost all turn by turn enter into the bones, and stiffen and cramp them
before old age is due.
“Is nothing known regarding her parentage?” I asked. “Have you never
heard any story about her?”
“No, nothing. The lawyer in Oundle who used to pay Fanny monthly
probably knew all about it, but he’s dead now. Fanny had the child
brought to her through answerin’ an advertisement in the _Stamford
Mercury_. My poor wife used to be particular fond o’ little Dolly.”
“And why did she call to see you? Had she an object in doing so?”
“I suppose she wanted to visit the cottage ag’in,” was the old man’s
answer. “But she’s growed such a fine London lady that I was quite taken
aback when she told me she was Dolly Drummond.”
“Drummond! Why, that’s not her name,” I cried. “I mean Miss Bristowe.”
“You said the young lady who lives at Mr. Page’s, eh?”
“Certainly. A tall, dark young lady.”
“That’s Dolly Drummond. There’s only one lady livin’ there. She’s with
her uncle, Mr. Purvis.”
“Do you know anything about him?”
“Only that he’s ’er uncle—’er guardian, too, I fancy. She didn’t tell
me much about him, and I haven’t seen him myself.”
“Well,” I said; “you may be surprised to know that he’s the man to whom
you sold that piece of parchment.”
“What!” cried the old man, glaring at me. “Is he ’er uncle? Why, then,
that accounts for the questions she put to me.”
“What about?”
“About the old secret way from the Glebe Farm into the Manor House at
Caldecott. My father knew about it, and told me of it, but nobody’s been
able to find it yet.”
“And the young lady came to you for information?”
“She’s heard me mention it when she were a girl, so I suppose her
curiosity was aroused and that was why she came to me for information.”
“More likely that the man Purvis sent her. Perhaps they’ve discovered
what was written on that parchment, and are now making use of it. But I
hear you’ve met her at night.”
“Who told you so?” he asked, starting at my words.
“It is common gossip in Bringhurst.”
The old fellow laughed heartily, and in his broad dialect said:—
“They’ll be saying next that I’m the young lady’s father, and that I
want it kept secret.”
“Why did you meet her at such late hours?”
“Because she wanted to talk to me about her youth. She seems very
anxious to find out who were her parents, and for that reason I believe
she’s down here.”
“Isn’t it rather remarkable that Purvis should be with her?”
“It is. I don’t like that man. I’m very sorry I didn’t show you the
parchment afore I sold it to him, sir.”
With that latter sentiment I heartily coincided. Had I not been
forestalled, the treasure would have undoubtedly been ours long ago.
“But tell me more about Miss Drummond,” I urged.
“What is there to tell? When she was old enough Fanny sent ’er to the
national school at Deenethorpe. But she wasn’t at all like the village
children. She was always the lady, even when quite young.”
“Your sister-in-law was well paid, I suppose?”
“Yes. She was a widow, and only had the money from the lawyer to live
upon. Her husband was a wood-cutter, and was killed by a tree falling on
him over in Carlton Purlieus. One time Fanny fell ill, and we had little
Dolly with us at Rockingham for nigh on a year.”
Little wonder was it that she should have sought out the
good-for-nothing old labourer who had in his younger and more sober days
been as guardian to her.
“But I can’t understand why she should wish to meet you late at night,”
I remarked.
“She didn’t wish her uncle to know of our meetin’, she said. Besides,
she had a lot to ask me about her earlier days, and a lot to tell me of
how she had fared since she had left these parts.”
“Did she make any mention of that story about the fortune of the
Knuttons?”
“Well, sir, she did,” responded the old fellow, rather puzzled at what I
had divined. “She told me how she remembered me telling her all about it
when a girl, and how her Aunt Fanny, as she called her, used to prophesy
that one day we should be very rich.”
“And what else?”
“She made me point out the route which I believed was taken by the old
subterranean passage. That’s why we walked through the fields and were
seen together.”
“Well,” I said at last, “I want you to do something for me, Knutton, and
if you carry it through successfully I’ll give you a sovereign instead
of half a sovereign. I want you to go over to the Glebe Farm this
afternoon and take a letter to her. It must be given to her in secret,
remember. Ask for a reply, merely yes or no. You understand?”
“Oh, I’ll take the letter, sir, an’ be glad to do it,” the old labourer
cried eagerly.
“Very well, we’ll go back together to your cottage and I’ll write it.
Then you take it, and I’ll wait at the Sonde Arms until you return with
the reply. You must be careful, however, that this man Purvis doesn’t
see you, or you may make it awkward for Miss Drummond in a variety of
ways.”
“Trust me, sir,” was his response. “I knows my way about the Glebe Farm.
I worked there on and off for three years.”
“Then you know the big barn. Underneath it is a door leading to some
steps. Do you know them?”
“Know them, why, o’ course I do. The steps lead nowhere. There was once
a well at the bottom, they say, but it’s been bricked up because it used
to over-flow up to the barn door.”
It was evident that the entrance had been unsuspected, and that the
subterranean communication had only very recently been opened.
The old fellow shouldered his spade and with bent back walked beside me
into Rockingham, where, upon a leaf from my note-book, I wrote an urgent
line to the woman whose great beauty and sweet grace had enchanted me. I
prayed of her to do me a favour and give me an appointment at a spot on
the high road between Great Easton and Caldecott which I had noticed
that morning—a place where, according to the sign-post, the road to
Market Harborough joined that to Wellingborough. I sealed the note and,
having watched the old fellow down the road, turned into the Sonde Arms
to smoke and kill time until his return.
What he had told me added a further touch of romance to that pale-faced,
troubled woman who had so strangely entered my life. Impatient and
fidgety I lounged in the inn, smoking and trying to read the newspaper,
until at last Ben, after an absence of an hour and a half, returned.
“I managed to send a message in to her by old Sam Lucas, the shepherd,
and she came out and met me behind the barn. She read your letter, sir,
and turned a little red. She seemed to hesitate like, and then asked me
if I knowed you. When I told her I did, she said I was to say she’d meet
you at eight o’clock to-night at the place you mentioned.”
My heart leaped for joy.
I slipped the coin agreed upon into the old fellow’s horny palm, and
with injunctions to secrecy left the place and hurried along the road,
over the level crossing, into Caldecott, where I told my companions of
my tryst.
During my absence they had taken up the flooring of one of the
downstairs rooms, but the search had been in vain, and they were now
working in their shirt-sleeves replacing the boards.
“We shall have another visit from them swabs to-night, doctor,” Seal
said, as he mopped the perspiration from his sea-bronzed face. “There’ll
be some fun in this house before morning, that’s my firm belief.”
By “fun,” the skipper meant fighting, for if he met Black Bennett we
knew there would be blows—and hard ones too.
Punctually at eight o’clock I halted beneath the weather-worn sign-post.
The crimson after-glow had faded and the still evening was far advanced.
Away in the west the red glow still showed from behind the hills, but in
the east crept up the dark night-clouds. The hour struck from the church
towers of several villages, and away in the far distance the curfew
commenced to toll solemnly, just as it has ever done since the far-back
Norman days.
With eyes and ears on the alert, I stood awaiting her coming.
She was late—as a woman always is—but at last I saw the flutter of a
light dress approaching in the twilight, and went eagerly forward to
meet her.
In the fading light I saw her face. To me it looked more beautiful than
before, because the cheeks were slightly flushed as I raised my hat to
greet her.
I took her hand, and it trembled in my grasp. She looked for a single
instant into my face, then dropped her eyes without uttering a word. By
that sign I felt convinced that the satisfaction of our clandestine
meeting was mutual.
Ah! how deeply I loved her! So deeply, indeed, that in the first moments
of our meeting I was tongue-tied.
Surely ours was a strange wooing; but, as will be seen, its dénouement
was far stranger.
CHAPTER XXVII
DOROTHY DRUMMOND PREFERS SECRECY
DOROTHY looked more worn and anxious than on that morning when I had
walked with her in Westbourne Grove. But the air of mystery enveloped
her still, and to even the casual observer her face was interesting as
that of a woman with some tragic history.
“Miss Drummond,” I said, “it is a real pleasure to me that we meet
again.”
She started at the mention of her name, but made no comment, except to
say, in her sweet, well-modulated voice:—
“The pleasure is mutual, I assure you, Dr. Pickering.” Then she asked:
“How did you know I was staying in this neighbourhood?”
I explained how I had seen her emerge from the farmhouse and gather the
flowers, and what old Ben Knutton had told me of her youth.
“I had no idea that you knew this district,” I added.
“Yes,” she responded, looking around her, “I’ve known it all my life.
Every house, every field, every tree is familiar to me, for here I spent
my happiest days,” and a slight sigh escaped her as her memory ran back.
We were walking together slowly along a path beside the winding Welland.
She knew the way, and had led me through a gate and across a small strip
of pasture down to the river. We were safer from observation there than
upon the open highway, she said.
After we had been chatting some time she suddenly grew serious, and
said:—
“Do you know, Doctor Pickering, why I’ve come to you to-night?”
“No, but I hoped it was to resume our pleasant companionship,” I said.
“It was to warn you.”
“Of what?”
“Of your enemies.”
“You mean those men Bennett and Purvis,” I said, hoping to learn
something from her. “Purvis is your uncle, is he not?”
She glanced at me quickly, and responded in the affirmative.
“Tell me, Miss Drummond,” I urged, “are you aware of the reason I am
staying here?”
“I know it all,” she replied, in a strained voice. “I am well aware that
you are searching for the hidden gold, which you cannot find. I am
aware, too, that you hold the key to the plan, and that by aid of that
key the place of concealment could be at once ascertained.”
“Mr. Purvis bought the plan from old Knutton,” I remarked.
“Yes; the drunken old idiot sold it, even though it had been in
possession of his family for centuries. The treasure would be partly his
if it could be discovered.”
“But does Mr. Purvis know anything definite regarding the place where it
is hidden?”
“He believes it to be in the Manor House, and for that reason they have
reopened the old subway from the Glebe to the Manor. He has with him the
man Bennett, said to be one of the worst characters outside the walls of
a gaol.”
“I know; they call him Black Bennett,” I said.
“Beware of them,” she urged. “They will hesitate at nothing to possess
themselves of the treasure. They would kill you.”
The recollection of what Reilly had witnessed in London flashed through
my mind. It was on the tip of my tongue to mention it, yet I feared to
do so, not knowing what effect it might have upon her highly strung
temperament.
“What Knutton has told me regarding your romantic life has aroused my
interest, Miss Drummond,” I said presently. “Did you never know your
parents?”
“Alas! no. They died when I was quite young. All I know about them is
that they lived somewhere in Norfolk, and that my father was ruined by
speculation just before his death. I was fourteen when the good woman
who brought me up died, and my Aunt Lewis sent me to school. Then on her
death, quite recently, Mr. Purvis became my guardian.”
“But who and what is this man Purvis?” I asked. “I know you are unhappy.
Confide in me everything. I give you my bond of secrecy,” I said
earnestly.
“I knew nothing of his existence until a few weeks ago, when Aunt Lewis
died and Mr. Purvis came forward and promised to look after me. I had
taken up typewriting and obtained a clerkship in a City office, which I
held until I resigned a fortnight ago to come down here.”
“At Purvis’s suggestion?”
“Yes, because I am acquainted with the district.”
“Then you lived alone in Bayswater?” I suggested.
“Yes. I have never lived under the same roof with Purvis, except here at
Page’s, because I—I hate him.”
“Why?”
Her pale, quivering lips compressed, but no word escaped them.
I knew the truth. The man was implicated in the assassination of her
lover, if not the actual murderer. Therefore she held him in loathing.
“Well,” I said at length, as we strolled along beside the dark, silent
stream, “tell me the story of the treasure as my enemies know it. We are
friends, Miss Drummond, and our enemies are mutual. Cannot we unite
forces and combat them?”
“Oh!” she sighed, “I only wish we could. I fear, however, that it is
impossible.” There was a pathos in her voice which showed that the words
came direct from a heart overburdened with grief.
“What do these men know about me?” I inquired.
“Everything. They have watched you vigilantly day and night, and are
aware of every movement on your part. They know the whole story of how
you discovered the derelict, and what you found on board. They even know
the contents of certain of the parchments you recovered—one, I think,
had a number of signatures upon it.”
“The one stolen from Mr. Staffurth’s?” I cried.
“Yes. But they had a copy of that long before. From what I’ve heard,
there was on board your steamer a man named Harding, who had sailed as
seaman, but who was a professor of Latin who had come down in the world.
It was he who made the copy and translation and sold it to some one, who
afterwards sold it to Purvis. The latter lost no time in coming here and
buying the parchment from Knutton, thus forestalling you.”
“Was Harding previously acquainted with Purvis?”
“I think so. The copy and information were not, however, sold direct,
but through a third person.”
“Are they sanguine of success?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered. “By some means they’ve discovered evidence that
the gold is concealed in the Manor House.”
“In what part?”
“Ah! That is not known. They intend to make a search. To-night they will
probably break through—four of them. Therefore be on the alert.”
I explained how we had been aroused on the previous night by the cutting
of the door, and how we had explored the passage as far as the Glebe
Farm. Then, laying her hand upon my arm, she said earnestly—
“Oh, Dr. Pickering, do be careful! I fear that you may come to harm at
the hands of these unscrupulous men.”
“But why have you associated yourself with them?” I asked, taking her
hand and speaking very seriously.
She was silent. Then at last she answered:—
“Because I am unfortunately compelled.”
“But the fact that this man Purvis is your guardian is no reason why you
should participate in his scheme. He seems an adventurer, just as
Bennett is known to be one.”
“Ah! doctor,” she cried, turning to me suddenly, her whole form
trembling, “do not argue thus! You do not know; you cannot know all.”
But I knew, and regarded her with pity born of love.
Those men held her to them by threats of exposure. She had enticed that
unknown man to his death, and was therefore an accessory. The hideous
truth was plain. She was the puppet and decoy of these scoundrels. She
had decoyed me on that night when she had taken me to Blackheath, but at
the last moment her better nature had rebelled and she had sent me back
without any explanation more than a lame excuse.
I saw how utterly helpless she was in the hands of that pair of
assassins. When I questioned her I found that the sum Purvis allowed her
was very small, and that long before the death of her Aunt Lewis she had
earned her own living as a typewriter.
By dint of careful questioning I endeavoured to obtain from her some
facts regarding Purvis’ private life, but she appeared to know but
little of it. He now lived at Hammersmith, she said, but she never
visited his house unless at his orders, and then the motive was
generally in connexion with their scheme to gain possession of the
treasure.
It is always advantageous to have a friend in the camp of the enemy, and
in this case what Dorothy Drummond told me ultimately proved of the
greatest service to us.
I longed to explain the knowledge I possessed regarding the murder at
Kilburn, yet how could I? If she suspected that I knew the truth she
would, in her present agitated state of mind, flee from me in terror
lest I should betray her.
“Cannot you sever yourself entirely from these men?” I suggested.
“Indeed, Miss Drummond, I hate to think of you participating in the
desperate schemes of such adventurers. Suppose they should fall into the
hands of the police, you also may be implicated!”
She burst into a torrent of tears at my words and, halting, covered her
face with her hands. Tenderly I strove to console her, and placing my
hand upon her shoulder, there in the darkness, I bent to her ear and in
hot, fervent words told her my secret—that I loved her.
She heard me in silence, sobbing till the end. Then, in a hoarse, broken
voice, she answered:—
“No. It is impossible! You must not tell me this—you must not entertain
any affection for me.”
“Why not, Dorothy?” I asked, calling her for the first time by her
Christian name. “Have I not confessed to you how I love you with all the
passion of which a man is capable? For weeks and weeks you have been my
all in all. Waking or sleeping, your face has been ever before me, and I
feel by a mysterious intuition that our lives in future are bound to one
another.”
“Ah, spare me!” she cried, through her tears. “Spare me! I cannot bear
to hear your words. Would that I might return your love, but I dare not.
No, I dare not—for your sake, as well as for mine.”
Was she thinking of her dead lover, and of the traitorous part she had
been compelled to play? Yes. She hated herself, and at the same time
held me in fear.
“But you love me, Dorothy?” I whispered. “Tell me, truthfully and
honestly.”
“No, no,” she urged. “Do not seek to wring the truth from me. Let us
part. We must never meet again after to-night. I—I saved you once from
death, that night when I took you to Blackheath,” she went on
breathlessly. “It suddenly dawned upon me that they meant to kill you
and secure all the documents which you had found on board the derelict.
They awaited you in a house they had taken for the purpose, and
compelled me to come to you with a fictitious story regarding my
brother, and to induce you to walk into the trap. Held in bondage, I
dared not disobey, and came to you. But at the last moment I compelled
you to return and went back to face their anger. Why did I act as I did?
Cannot you guess?”
“Perhaps, Dorothy, it was because you entertained a spark of affection
for me?”
A silence fell between us for some moments. Then she answered in a low
voice, only just audible:—
“You have guessed aright. It was.”
I leant towards her and kissed her cold, hard-set lips. She made no
remonstrance, only she shuddered in my grasp, and a second later
returned my caress and then burst again into tears.
“Ah, you must not care for me,” she declared. “I am unworthy. You don’t
know everything, or you would hate me rather than love me.”
“But I love you with the whole strength of my being, Dorothy!” I
declared, in deep earnestness. “That is enough. Now that you reciprocate
my affection I am satisfied. I want for no more. You are mine, darling,
and I am yours—for ever.”
“But I fear that you may bitterly repent this—I fear that when you know
all my past your love will turn to hatred and your admiration to
loathing.”
“The past does not concern us, dearest,” I answered tenderly, with my
arm about her slim waist. “It is for the future we must live, and to
that end assist one another.” And again I pressed my lips to hers fondly
in all the ecstasy of my new-found happiness.
What further description can I give of those moments of bliss? You, my
reader, know well the sweet idyllic peace that comes in the stillness of
night when two hearts beat in unison. Wisely or unwisely, you have loved
with all the ardour of your nature, just as I loved. You remember well
the passion of those first caresses, the music of those fervent words of
devotion, and the opening vista of happiness unalloyed.
Pause for a moment and reflect upon first your own love, and you will
know something of my tender feelings toward the poor hapless woman whose
pure and loving heart was frozen by the terror of exposure.
CHAPTER XXVIII
WE RECEIVE MIDNIGHT VISITORS
I TOOK leave of my love reluctantly at ten o’clock, just outside
Bringhurst village. She was anxious to be back at the farm before the
return of Purvis, who had gone that morning to London on some secret
errand, and was returning by the last train.
She had entirely enchanted me. The more I saw of her, the more graceful,
the more charming, she seemed. There was nothing loud or masculine about
her; she was a sweet, modest woman, yearning for love, sympathy, and
protection.
The manner in which she was bound to this clever gang of rogues was
still a mystery. In me she had confided many things during those two
calm hours of our new-born love, but from me she still concealed the
real reason why her interests were bound up in those of Purvis, Bennett,
and their two accomplices. I guessed, and believed that I guessed
aright. The tragedy at Kilburn held her to them irrevocably. She was
entirely and helplessly in their hands, to fetch and carry, to do their
bidding; indeed, to act unlawfully at their command.
If that were so, surely no woman could be in a more horrible
position—compelled to be the accomplice of assassins.
I thought it all over as, in the darkness, I walked back to Caldecott.
True, I had gained her affection that night. Yet, together with the
perfect bliss that comes in the first hour of true love, there had also
come to me the hideous truth of her bondage.
The last train from Rugby having rushed past, sparks flying from the
engine and awakening the echoes of the night, stopped for a moment at
Rockingham Station and then continued its journey eastward. And
presently, as I walked onward in the darkness, I encountered a man whose
face I could not see, for we passed each other beneath the shadow of
some trees. I saw he was tall and thin, and wore a long light overcoat.
He was whistling to himself, as a lonely man sometimes whistles to keep
himself company.
His silhouette stood out distinctly in the gloom, and although I saw not
his countenance I knew well that it was my enemy Purvis—the man who
held my love in bondage.
Back at the Manor I found everything prepared for siege. Seal was not a
man to stand idle if there was any chance of a scrimmage. Like all
giants in strength, he loved fighting. His hesitation to face Black
Bennett had now entirely disappeared, and over his rum that night he
expressed a most fervent hope that the “white-livered swabs,” as he
termed them, would appear in the secret passage.
On the table between us lay three revolvers, and as we took counsel
together each of us smoked furiously. I told them something of what
Dorothy Drummond had related to me, how our enemies meant to raid us,
and of their firm belief that the treasure was concealed there. But I
said nothing of my tender passion, nor did I allow them to suspect the
real object of our clandestine meeting.
“Ah!” remarked Reilly. “If you could only get Miss Drummond, or
Bristowe, or whatever is her real name, to secure that parchment of old
Knutton’s, then the game would be entirely in our own hands.”
“That’s unfortunately impossible,” I answered. “The man Purvis has it
securely put away. I have already mentioned it to her, and she tells me
that she has no idea where it is.”
“Well,” remarked the skipper, “Black Bennett and his men are just as
much in the dark as we are. Let ’em come. They’ll get a warm reception.
How many of ’em are there?”
“Four. Bennett and the other two are lodging in Kettering.”
“The only reason of the secret attack upon us, as far as I can see, is
in order to gag and secure us while they make a thorough search of the
premises. They surely wouldn’t dare to kill the whole three of us in our
beds!” said Reilly.
“They won’t kill Job Seal, you can bet your sea-boots on that,” remarked
the skipper with a grin upon his great furrowed face.
But my mind was running upon the tragedy at Kilburn, and I was trying to
devise some means by which we might denounce the whole gang, and hand
them over to the police.
There was, alas! one fact which would ever prevent us taking such an
action. If we boldly charged them with murder, Dorothy must be
implicated. To arrest them would mean arrest for her. She had acted as
decoy, and could not deny it!
So I was compelled to abandon all hope in that direction. By sheer force
we would be compelled to combat this quartette of unscrupulous
adventurers, and to that end we awaited their coming.
So thoroughly and carefully had we examined every hole and corner of the
house that all three of us were beginning to despair of ever discovering
the hidden hoard. In an old-fashioned mansion of that character there
were a thousand and one places where gold might be stored. In chimneys,
under stairs, beneath the flags of the big, vaulted cellars, behind the
large, open fireplaces—some of which still had their quaint iron dogs
of ancient days—all these places we had investigated in vain. Not a
single room was there but bore traces of our chisels, picks and
crowbars. The result of our search consisted in two or three copper
coins, an old letter dated in 1796, a skeleton with rings upon the
fingers, an old leathern mug, and two or three articles not worth
enumeration.
We were sorely disappointed. We could not conceal from ourselves the
bare fact that at any rate in the Manor House the treasure of
Bartholomew da Schorno was non-existent, and, furthermore, we feared
that some one in generations past had been before us and secured it in
secret.
Nevertheless, the careful and ingenious actions of our enemies in order
to gain entry into the place puzzled us. From what my love had told me,
they were evidently in possession of some information of which we were
in ignorance—information which made it plain that, after all, the
treasure was actually there.
They meant mischief; we had no doubt about that. But, being forewarned,
we calmly awaited their coming, Seal chuckling to himself at the
reception they would receive.
The church clock struck midnight. We had moved into the room from which
the secret way opened, and, Reilly having produced a pack of cards, we
played nap in under-tones, our weapons lying at hand in case of need.
Now and then—indeed, after every game—one or other of us rose and
listened within the secret chamber for the approach of the invaders. One
o’clock passed, two o’clock, yet no sound save the familiar thumping and
squealing of the rats and the dismal howling of the wind in the wide,
old-fashioned chimney.
Seal had lost five shillings, and had therefore become engrossed in the
game, when of a sudden we heard a low grating noise. In an instant we
were on our feet, revolver in hand, and according to our pre-arranged
plan our light was at once extinguished.
It was our object to watch and take the intruders by surprise.
Without a sound we all three moved across the room and out into the
corridor, concealing ourselves in a big cupboard upon which Reilly had
placed an inside fastening. Our bedrooms we had locked and had the keys
in our pockets, intending that our enemies should believe us to be
asleep. In the cupboard door Reilly had bored holes that enabled us to
see without being seen, while beside us were lamps ready to be lit in
case of emergency.
Boxed up there, we waited, scarce daring to breathe lest we should
betray our presence. We could hear low, gruff whispers and expressions
of surprise as the invaders crept out of the secret chamber into the
room. From their muffled tread we knew they had stockings pulled over
their boots, and from our spy-holes we saw Bennett, lantern in hand,
emerge into the corridor and look up and down to see that all was clear.
Then he crept out, followed by three others, one of whom, I saw, was
tall and gaunt, with fair moustache—the man who held my love beneath
his thrall.
Creeping along quietly, they passed us in procession, carrying chisels
and picks, and taking every precaution against surprise. Having
traversed the corridor, they descended the wide oaken stairs to the
ground floor, where the uncertain light of the lanterns was quickly lost
to view.
As soon as they had passed out of hearing, Reilly took up the hurricane
lamp and opening the cupboard let us out, whispering:—
“Watch them, doctor. See where they try, but don’t give the alarm until
I return.” Then he left us, and we heard nothing more of him. His quick
disappearance was a surprise to both of us, for he had previously told
us nothing of his intentions, and had apparently acted on the spur of
the moment.
At first Seal had been inclined to meet them at their entrance and drive
them back, but to me such a proceeding seemed useless. My idea was to
watch and ascertain where they went. Their own actions would betray the
spot where they believed the gold was concealed. Our council had been a
long one, but my suggestion had been adopted. Hence our retirement into
the cupboard.
Job Seal had no love for Black Bennett, and as we crept along the
corridor after them he gave vent to a strong nautical imprecation
between his teeth. At the top of the staircase we listened, but could
hear no sound. Therefore we crept down, fearing every moment the
creaking oak might betray us, for the thin-worn old stairs were loose in
places and gave forth sounds that in the night awakened the echoes of
the empty place.
We arrived safely in the stone hall and halted, our ears strained to
catch the slightest sound. We, however, heard nothing. All was silent as
the grave. Indeed, the invaders with their swinging lanterns had passed
by us silently in single file and seemed to have disappeared.
“They must have gone down to the cellars,” I whispered to Seal.
Therefore we passed through the big stone kitchen into a small scullery
beyond, from which a flight of stone steps led into the deep vaulted
basement. The stout door was closed, but listening at it we heard voices
quite distinctly. Our enemies were below, apparently divided in opinion
as to the exact spot to open.
We heard one authoritative voice, which the skipper at once recognized
as Bennett’s, saying:—
“I tell you that it’s here, in this side wall. Don’t you remember that
the old fortune-teller said three times three from the bottom of the
steps. Look!” and we heard him count one, two, three—to nine, as he
measured the paces. “It’s in this wall, here. Come, let’s get to work,
and don’t make any noise, either. Is the door above closed?”
Somebody gave an affirmative response, and soon afterwards we heard the
sound of chisels upon the stones. They worked with very little noise, so
little, indeed, that had we been asleep the sound would not have reached
us.
With Seal standing beside me, his fingers itching to come in contact
with Bennett, I think I must have stood there nearly half an hour. The
work went on unceasingly, silently, hardly a word being spoken. Reilly’s
absence surprised me, but soon we heard a low whisper inquiring where
the intruders were, and our companion stood beside us listening.
“They evidently know something of the right spot,” I whispered to him.
“They’re taking down part of the foundations. Hark!”
A man was speaking—probably Purvis.
“Now we’re here, we ought to see whether they’ve made any
investigations. Come, Harding, let’s go up and have a look round while
they’re getting those stones out. We’ll only be ten minutes or so. Have
you got the torch?”
“All right,” responded the other, and I knew by the name and the voice
that it was the seaman of the _Thrush_ who had read those documents and
who had been insolent at my remonstrance.
The instant, however, we heard their intention we sprang out of the
kitchen and upstairs to our previous hiding-place. The cupboard was not
in the least suspicious—one of those generally built in old houses for
the storage of linen. If they found it locked they would not risk
awakening us by forcing the door.
Up came the two men a few minutes later, passing from one open room to
the other, taking a general look at the place with an electric torch,
and expressing whispered surprise at the havoc we had played with the
walls. Finding the doors of our two bedrooms locked, they did not touch
them for fear of disturbing us.
Seal was impatient to make an attack upon them, but I considered that
discretion was best, and that to watch was more politic than to show
fight. So we waited in silence, until the grey dawn shone through the
long corridor. Then at last we heard a slight movement, and the men
re-passed in procession as noiselessly as they had come, and disappeared
into the room.
Reilly opened the cupboard and listened. We heard a bang as the door in
the flooring was shut down after they had descended to the underground
burrow; then in a moment he was all excitement.
“Come, help me quickly!” he cried, rushing forward into the secret
chamber. “Quick! pile up these stones so that they cannot re-open the
flap! They will return very soon. Quick!” And he began frantically
heaping upon the trap-door the stones that we had taken from the wall, a
work in which Seal and I assisted with a will.
When at last we had secured it by wedging two crowbars across the heap
of stones so that it could not possibly be opened from below, Reilly
burst into loud laughter and danced with delight, saying:—
“We’ve trapped them, doctor! Trapped them all like vermin! When I left
you I rushed down the passage to the well and found it bridged. I drew
the boards away and tossed them down into the water. They can’t get
across by any means. Come! Let’s close the door!” And he pulled back
into its place the stout, iron-studded oak with the supreme satisfaction
of knowing that he had entombed the invaders in that damp, dismal burrow
which they themselves had discovered.
CHAPTER XXIX
DOROTHY MAKES A CONFESSION
“TRAPPED the swabs!” cried Job Seal, rubbing his big hands with
undisguised delight, although he seemed disappointed that we had not
allowed him to come face to face with Bennett. From the skipper’s
determined attitude I knew that murder would be done if the two men met,
therefore I took to myself some credit for having kept them apart, even
though they had passed within a yard of one another.
“Trapped the whole four of ’em!” he exclaimed, his great face lit by a
grin as he placed his hands to his sides. “Mr. Reilly,” he added, “I’ve
respect for you, sir. You’ve checkmated ’em entirely.”
“I’d thought it all over,” was the younger man’s reply. “And if any of
them fall down the well it isn’t our look-out. They had no right to
intrude here.”
“But can they get across by any means?” I queried, knowing well the
characters of the quartette.
“Impossible—absolutely impossible,” Reilly replied. “I can jump as far
as most men, but I couldn’t jump that. They have no ropes, or any means
by which to bridge the death-trap.”
I glanced at my watch. It was then a quarter past four. Morning broke,
bright and sunny, with a slight mist rising from the river, but still we
waited in that upstairs room for signs of the invaders returning.
Half an hour went by, and suddenly we heard noises below.
They were trying to raise the trap-door down which they had passed, but
we knew that all efforts to do so were useless, for, besides the stones
upon it, we had so wedged the crowbars across and into holes in the wall
that to push up the flap was utterly impossible.
From where we stood we could hear their voices mingled with the groans
of their united efforts.
“Stay there, you unutterable sons of dogs!” growled Job Seal, and
although those were not exactly the words he used, they were synonymous.
I stood listening, and could hear the low curses of the men whom we had
captured like rats in a run.
Together we went downstairs and out into the early sunshine. The bright
air refreshed us, although our thoughts were with those four men
consigned to a living tomb.
Presently we re-entered the house and descended to the cellar where they
had been at work. By the light of a candle which the skipper carried we
were surprised to see what an enormous hole they had made through the
foundations into the earth beyond. Indeed, they had taken out a great
piece of the wall, and through the rough arch had driven a tunnel two
yards high and some three yards long. It was there they had evidently
expected to discover the treasure, but, like ourselves, they had worked
in vain.
The strong-smelling earth excavated lay piled in the cellar up to the
roof, and the manner in which the work had been performed showed that at
least one of the party was used to such operations. But there was
nothing else there, save a few candle-ends.
It struck us all three as very remarkable why the intruders should have
gone straight to that spot and commenced their investigation there.
Evidently they were in possession of certain precise information of
which we were in utter ignorance, yet, holding them entrapped in that
long, subterranean passage without exit, we should now be enabled to
pursue further investigations in the direction they themselves had
indicated.
Seal, without coat or vest, spent an hour in tapping every part of the
wall, but was compelled to admit that he discovered no hollow place.
Therefore, recollecting the mention of the paces from the bottom of the
steps, we measured them in an opposite direction and began to attack the
wall.
Through the whole morning we all three worked in the semi-darkness, but
having cut out a great circular piece from the huge wall we only found
the soft, chalky earth beyond, and no sign whatever of the presence of
gold.
All was disappointing—utterly disheartening.
At noon we made ourselves presentable, and went over to the Plough for
lunch. While we were still seated at table the inn-keeper’s sister
entered and told me that Ben Knutton wished to speak with me, a request
to which I responded with alacrity.
Outside I found the bent old fellow awaiting me. The very fact that he
would not enter the inn told me that what he wished to say was in
secrecy.
“Mornin’, sir,” he exclaimed, in a low voice, touching his battered hat
respectfully. “Dolly’s sent me, sir, with a message to you.” And
fumbling in his trousers pocket he placed in my hand a crumpled letter.
We were standing behind a blank wall, with none to watch our movements;
therefore I tore open the missive eagerly and read the few
hastily-scribbled lines therein.
“_Dear Paul_,” she wrote, “_I am returning to London at once. If you
write, do not address the letter to the library at Kensington, but to me
at 120, Cornwall Road, Bayswater. Recollect the warning I gave you
yesterday. Mr. P. went out last night, but he has not returned.—Yours,
D. D._”
“Has Miss Drummond left Bringhurst?” I asked the old labourer.
“Yes, sir. I saw her off by the train for London. She’s not coming back,
she said.”
This surprised me. What, I wondered, could have occurred to take her
away so suddenly, especially after our exchange of vows on the previous
night? Re-reading the letter I found it cold and rather reserved,
scarcely the communication of a woman filled with passionate love, as I
believed her to be. She gave no reason for her sudden flight, although
she warned me again of impending danger. Evidently she did not know that
the four malefactors were entombed.
I returned to my companions, and became filled with a longing to go up
to London.
I think Job Seal had had almost enough of the Manor House. That skeleton
troubled his superstitious mind, therefore he was the first to hail my
suggestion with approval. He had to see his owners, he said, and wanted
to run down and see how the _Thrush_ was progressing in dry dock.
Reilly, however, seemed rather loth to leave the place before he had
ascertained the fate of the invaders. He prided himself upon his
ingenuity, and he certainly was a smart fellow, and never at a loss to
wriggle out of a difficulty.
We locked up the place carefully, and although neither Reilly nor myself
took any luggage, the skipper insisted upon taking his bed. He could
sleep on no other, he declared. That night I slept in my own rooms at
Chelsea, and next morning about eleven I met Reilly by appointment at
Notting Hill Gate Station and took him with me to Cornwall Road, in
order to introduce him to my well-beloved. I really don’t know what
induced me to do this, save that I felt that the interests of all three
of us were in common, and a man is always eager and proud to introduce
to his friends the woman he loves.
When we were ushered by the maid into Dorothy’s small, neatly-arranged
sitting-room on the second floor, she rose from a little writing-table
to greet us with a cry of surprise. She wore a black skirt and clean
cotton blouse, which gave her countenance a bright, fresh appearance. As
her eyes met mine her cheeks flushed with pleasure, but at Reilly she
glanced inquiringly, as though she considered him an intruder.
At once I introduced him, and they were instantly friends.
The arrangement of the room betrayed the hand of a refined and tasteful
woman. The furniture was of the type found in every Bayswater
lodging-house, but by the judicious addition of a few art covers,
Liberty cushions, and knick-knacks, the general aspect was changed into
one of good taste and perfect harmony.
“Really, Dr. Pickering, this is indeed a pleasant surprise! I had no
idea you were coming to town,” she exclaimed, placing chairs for both of
us.
I briefly explained that, finding our search in the Manor House
fruitless, we had relinquished our investigations for a few days. I also
told her that my companion was my assistant, and that we had been at
work together.
“But I’ve heard that you had another friend with you—a man called Seal,
I think, a sea-captain,” she remarked.
“True. But who told you?”
“I heard Mr. Purvis talking of him with his friends. Mr. Bennett seems
especially antagonistic towards him.”
“And well he may be,” I answered. Then in a few brief words I told her
the story which the skipper had related to us. My words did not surprise
her in the least. She evidently knew Black Bennett too well.
Upon the mantelshelf in a heavy silver frame was a half-length cabinet
photograph of a clean-shaven and rather good-looking young man. My eyes
fell upon it once or twice, and I wondered who was the original. Perhaps
it was my natural jealousy which caused that sudden interest.
Presently, while we were talking, a rap came at the door, and the
servant called my love outside to hand her something from a tradesman.
The moment she had disappeared behind the screen placed across the door
Reilly bent to me and, in a quick whisper, said:—
“See that photo? That’s the man who was murdered at Kilburn! Ask her
about him. I’ll make an excuse to go.”
I looked again at the picture. He was not more than twenty, with
well-cut, refined features, a pair of merry eyes, and a well-formed
mouth that in some way bore a slight resemblance to hers.
When she re-entered Reilly rose and stretched out his hand, expressing
regret that he had an appointment in the City.
“I won’t take Dr. Pickering away from you, Miss Drummond,” he laughed
mischievously. “You are one of our rivals in this treasure-hunt, but
perhaps you both can arrange to combine forces—eh?”
She laughed in chorus, and although she pressed him to remain I saw that
at heart she was glad when he had taken leave of us. Every woman likes
to be alone with her lover.
“Well, Dorothy,” I said, as she came back again, smiling, to my side,
and allowed me to kiss her sweet lips, “and why have you fled from
Bringhurst like this? Tell me the whole truth.”
“By Mr. Purvis’ orders. After leaving you I returned to the farm, half
an hour before he got back. Then he told me I was to pack and return to
London by the morning train. I have not seen him since.”
“You are unaware of the reason he wished you to leave Bringhurst?”
“Quite. After I had gone to bed I heard Bennett’s voice, but they went
out together late, and I heard no more of them.”
“Bennett is not your friend?” I suggested, watching her the while.
Her eyes lit up in an instant.
“My friend!” she cried. “Bennett my friend! No, Paul, he is my worst and
most bitter enemy.”
“Tell me, Dorothy,” I asked, after a brief pause, during which I held
her soft, slim hand in mine, “who is that young man there—the
photograph in the silver frame?” And I pointed to it.
For a moment she did not reply. “That—that!” she gasped, her face
blanching as she caught her breath quickly, her lips trembling, her eyes
fixed upon me in abject fear. “A friend,” she laughed, falteringly.
“Only a friend—no one that you know.”
And her breast rose and fell quickly as she strove to conceal the storm
of conflicting emotions that arose within her.
“But I really think you ought to tell me who it is, dearest,” I said.
“Now that we are lovers, I surely have a right to know!”
“He is dead,” she cried. “Dead!”
And with trembling fingers she took up the frame and turned it with
reverence face towards the wall.
“It is the picture of a dead friend, Paul,” she added. “Need I tell you
more than that?” she asked, with an effort.
“What was his name?” I demanded in a low, serious voice.
“His name!” she cried in blank dismay. “No. Paul! I cannot tell you
that. I love you—I love you with every fibre of my being, but in this,”
she cried, clinging to me with trembling hands, “in this one small
matter I beg of you to let me keep my secret. Be generous, and if you
really love me let the dead rest.”
“He was your lover.” I blurted forth.
“Ah! no!” she cried. “You misjudge me! He was never my lover, although I
confess to you that I—I loved him.”
And she buried her face upon my shoulder, and sobbed as though her
overburdened heart would break.
CHAPTER XXX
THE SILENT MAN’S STORY
ON the following morning I entered Dr. Macfarlane’s consulting-room in
response to a letter from him.
“Your foundling is a lot better, Pickering,” exclaimed the great lunacy
specialist, rising and giving me his hand. “I’ve got him round at last.
Not only is he quite rational, but he has found his voice, or as much of
it as he will ever have. Brand, the surgeon, has discovered that he has
an injury to the tongue which prevents him properly articulating.”
“Is he quite in his right mind?” I asked, eagerly.
“As right as you are, my dear fellow. I thought from the first it was
only temporary,” he answered. “He has told me his story, and, by Jove!
it’s a remarkable one.”
“What account does he give of himself?”
“Oh, you’d better come with me down to Ealing, and hear it from his own
lips. I’m going to High Elms in half an hour.”
When the Mysterious Man entered the doctor’s private room at the asylum
I saw at once what a change had been wrought in him. Neatly dressed in
blue serge, his grey hair was well-trimmed, and he no longer wore that
long Rip Van Winkle beard of which the hands of the _Thrush_ had made
such fun. He was now shaven, with a well-twisted white moustache, smart,
fresh-looking, and no longer decrepit. He walked with springy step, and
seemed at least twenty years younger. Only when he spoke one realized
his infirmity, although he seemed an educated man. His mouth emitted a
strange, hollow sound, and several letters he could not pronounce
intelligibly.
“I have, I believe, to thank you, doctor,” he said, politely, as he came
in. “You were one of those who rescued me.”
“Yes,” I answered. “I found you on board the old ship, the _Seahorse_,
and we took you with us to the steamer.”
“Ah!” he sighed. “I had a narrow escape, doctor—a very narrow escape.
I’ve been mad, they say. It’s true, I suppose, otherwise I should not be
here, in an asylum. But I assure you I recollect very little after I
boarded that coffin-ship.”
I watched his dark eyes. They were no longer shifty, but calm and
steady. He was quite sane now, and had at Macfarlane’s invitation seated
himself between us.
“We are all very much interested in you,” I said. “Will you tell me the
whole story?”
“Well, I can’t talk very plainly, you know, but I’ll try and explain
everything,” he said. Then with a renewed effort he went on:—
“It is no sailor’s yarn, but the truth, even though it may sound a
remarkable story. You see, it was like this. I’d been at sea all my
life, and in Liverpool Bob Usher, first mate of the _City of Chester_,
was well known twelve years ago. Like a good many other men I got sick
of my work, and in a fit of anger with the skipper I deserted in Sydney.
After the _City of Chester_ had sailed for home I joined another
steamer, the _Goldfinch_, bound for Shanghai, but instead of putting in
there we ran up the Chinese coast, and when a couple of cannon were
produced and the forecastle hands armed themselves with rifles and
cutlasses, the truth dawned upon me. It was not long before we painted
our name on the bows, and commenced doing a bit of piracy among the
junks. Our quick-firing guns, manned by old naval men, played havoc
among the Chinese boats, and before a fortnight we had quite a cargo of
loot—silks, ivories, tea, opium, and such things—all of which we ran
to Adelaide, where the skipper disposed of them to one of those agents
who asked no questions.
“At first I had thoughts of leaving the ship, for I had no desire to be
overhauled by a British cruiser, nor to be sunk as a pirate. Still, the
life was full of excitement, and the hands were as adventurous and as
light-hearted a crew as ever sailed the Pacific. Although the gunboats
were constantly on the lookout for us, we had wonderful good luck. In
the China seas there is still a lot of piracy, mostly by the Chinese
themselves, but sometimes by European steamers. We always gave the
British squadron a very wide berth, constantly changing our name and
altering the colour of our funnel. This went on for nearly a year, when
at last the chase after us grew a bit too hot, and we sailed out of
Perth for Liverpool. We had rounded the Cape and were steaming up the
West Coast of Africa, when one day a Danish seaman named Jansen made a
trifling mistake in executing one of the captain’s orders. The skipper
swore, the Dane answered him back, whereupon the captain shot the poor
fellow like a dog, and with the aid of the second mate pitched him to
the sharks before he was dead. This was a bit too much for me. I
remonstrated at such cold-blooded murder, but scarcely had the words
left my mouth when the captain, Bennett by name, fired point-blank at
me.”
“Bennett!” I ejaculated, interrupting. “Do you mean Black Bennett?”
“Yes. The same man,” he answered. “Do you know the brute?”
“I do. Go on. I’ll tell you something when you have finished.”
“Well, the skipper fired at me. He was the worst of bad characters. They
said he’d secured a big fortune after a few years, and that it was
locked up in Consols in England. All I know, however, is that he was the
most cold-blooded, heartless blackguard that I’ve ever met. Of course
Chinese don’t count for much, but I’d be afraid to estimate how many
he’d sent to kingdom come during our exciting cruises in Chinese waters.
But that’s neither here nor there. We quarrelled, he and I. Having
missed me, he at once decided on another plan of getting rid of me. We
were just then hugging a long, broken, and unexplored coast line,
therefore he stopped the vessel and ordered the crew to lower a boat and
put me ashore, knowing too well the fate of a single unarmed man among
the barbarous Moors. It was a fiendish revenge to maroon me, but I was
helpless. That was the last time I saw Bennett—nearly ten years ago
now.”
The man Usher paused for a few moments, the effort of such a long
narrative having been too much for him.
“Well,” he continued, “I was put ashore without food or water on a
sandy, desolate spot. The surf was so strong that we narrowly escaped
being upset, but getting to land at last I discovered the mouth of a
river, and pushed my way beside it for a good many miles. The river, I
afterwards found, was called the Tensift, and I had landed in South
Morocco. I need not describe all the adventures that happened to me,
save that I was seized a week after landing and carried as a slave to
Morocco city, where I was sold to a powerful sheik, who probably
considered that it increased his social status to possess an English
slave. I was taken across the deserts and over the Atlas to a place
called Aksabi, and for several years was kindly treated although held in
bondage. After some time, however, my master was ordered by the Sultan
to raise an army against the Riff tribes on the Mediterranean coast, and
I was, of course, enrolled as a man who knew something of war. Our
expedition travelled first to Fez, where we were reviewed by the Sultan
himself, and then we penetrated into the fertile mountain country held
by the revolutionary Riffs. But disaster after disaster befell us in
that unknown country, falling into ambushes almost every day, until with
others I was taken prisoner, and passed from hand to hand until I became
slave to one of the powerful Riff chiefs. All my companions had been
massacred in cold blood, but being a European my life had been spared,
probably because my captors expected they might hold me for ransom. As
slave of a tyrannical barbarian, mine was a dog’s life. On any day or at
any hour I knew not whether my capricious master might not order me to
be put to the torture, bastinadoed, or shot, while the work in the
broiling sun under a harsh negro taskmaster was so hard that it sapped
my manhood. The Sheik Taiba, whose slave I was, defied the Sultan and
lived in a mountain stronghold a few miles from the blue Mediterranean.
Day after day I could see the open sea stretching away beyond. Ah! how I
longed to be free to return to England. On one or two occasions I had
been sent with other slaves (all negroes) to obtain stones from the
seashore. On one occasion, at the mouth of the small river that flowed
down the valley to the sea opposite the island of Alhucemas, there had
been pointed out to me by one of my hapless companions, a decrepit old
negro, the submerged hull of a ship lying about a quarter of a mile up
from the sea, and only just covered by the clear, swift-flowing stream.
It lay like this,” and taking a pencil and paper he drew a plan of its
position.
“It was the _Seahorse_!” I said, quickly.
“Yes. It had been there for ages, a ship the like of which I had never
before seen, but by standing upon the projecting rock above I could look
down upon it. Many times I visited it, for the mystery of it attracted
me. Among both Moors and negroes there was a strange legend that evil
spirits were contained within, hence it was held in superstitious awe.
When it rose to the surface there would, it was believed, emerge from it
a terrible pestilence that would sweep the whole of the Riff tribes from
the face of the earth. I, however, had no such fear. Many times I dived
off the rock and examined the black old hull, finding that the
projecting stern had become wedged beneath the overhanging ledge, and
that this apparently kept it in its place. Through the windows I could
see that the water had not entered, hence it occurred to me that some
buoyancy might be left in it. For two whole years I held this theory,
and it was strengthened by the fact that instead of lying heavily on the
sandy bottom, the bows were raised a foot or two. I could see that it
was a very ancient vessel, which in some remote period had drifted over
the bar into the estuary, and had stranded there when the river was low.
Then when the winter snows of the Atlas had melted, the flood had risen
rapidly, the projecting rock had held down the stern of the old craft,
and the waters had closed over her. The one thought that possessed me
was that if that overhanging rock could be removed the hull might float
again. With this object I waited in patience. From the traders at Tetuan
the Riffs frequently purchased explosives which they used in their
periodical fights against the forces of the Kaid Maclean and the Sultan.
Hence, about two years afterwards, I found in the possession of the
Sheik Taiba some strange-looking substance which, although the Moors
were unaware of its potency, I knew to be dynamite. I managed to secure
some of it, and a week later placed it in the great rift in the rock and
in the middle of the night blew it up. The quantity I used must have
been much more than necessary, for the rock was split, and the ledge,
blown right off, fell into the water ten yards away from the vessel,
while to my great delight the craft came up to the surface, the
strangest-looking object I had ever seen afloat. I swam to it, and
having broken out one of its windows crept into the cabin, the current
carrying me slowly out to sea.
“The explosion had alarmed the Riffs, who poured down to the spot in
hundreds, only to see the strange craft which they held in such dread
actually floating down the stream. The sight of it filled them with
terror, and they fled, attributing the explosion to a supernatural
cause. My object, of course, was to escape from slavery, and in order
not to attract the attention of my enemies, the Riffs, should they board
me, I threw off my slave’s clothing, and finding in the cabin a pair of
old Elizabethan breeches and a doublet, I donned them. The door
communicating with the other part of the ship was secured so firmly that
very soon I realized my position.
“Days passed, how many I cannot tell. I only knew that want of food and
water—of which I had none—told upon me, as well as the punishment that
had been inflicted upon me a month before my escape. For a trifling
offence the Sheik Taiba had ordered my tongue to be cut out, a cruel
mutilation common among the Moors. This had not actually been done, but
so severely was my tongue injured by my inhuman captors that I was now
unable to articulate a single word. What more can I tell you? Alone on
that strange craft, hunger and thirst consumed me, my mind wandered, I
grew worse, and eventually went stark mad and oblivious to everything.
All I recollect is that I was placed in charge of Ben Harding, the man
who acted as Bennett’s second mate on the _Goldfinch_—a broken-down
gentleman who knew little about the sea, and whose previous career
included a long term of imprisonment at Brisbane for being implicated in
the murder of a mail-driver. But you said that you know Black Bennett,”
he added, with anger flashing in his eyes. “He marooned me because he
feared that I should tell the truth of poor Jansen’s murder when we got
to Liverpool. Where is he to be found?”
CHAPTER XXXI
THE HOUSE AT KILBURN
ROBERT USHER returned with me to Chelsea and again took up his abode in
Keppel Street.
To him I explained the whole of the curious circumstances, our exciting
search after the hidden loot, and our utter failure—a narrative which
interested him greatly, and caused him to become enthusiastic in his
desire to render us assistance. I introduced him to Seal, Reilly, and
old Staffurth, and we all closely analyzed his story, which at first
seemed so extraordinary to us as to be beyond credence. Seal, however,
as a practical seaman, examined the plan which Usher drew, and gave it
as his opinion that the _Seahorse_ had been preserved in the manner
described by Usher. His theory was that the antique vessel had been
battened down for a storm, and that the rudder being carried away the
men on board were helpless. The gale also carried away the masts and
blew the wreck over the bar into the river, where she became wedged by
the rocky ledge, as Usher described. Then a sudden flood of the river
caused the waters to rise so rapidly that before the crew could open the
hatches and escape the vessel became submerged.
I suggested that the reason the crew stayed below was that being
storm-driven to the land of their enemies, the Corsairs, they feared
attack, therefore remained within their stronghold, hoping to float away
when the gale abated, but were unfortunately overwhelmed so suddenly
that escape became impossible. Death had no doubt come upon them
quickly, for we recollected that the interior showed no sign of recent
fighting, and that asphyxiation was evidently the cause of death.
The fate of Bennett and his men in that underground burrow caused us
considerable apprehension. We had, up to the present, successfully
combated the efforts of the gang to secure the treasure, but so
ingenious and ubiquitous were our enemies that we knew not when or where
they would turn up again. Reilly was of opinion that they were entombed,
but my own idea was that with Black Bennett as leader they would
certainly escape in some ingenious manner or other. I had a kind of
intuition that we had not yet seen the last of that interesting
quartette.
So far as we were concerned we had given up all hope of discovering the
gold at Caldecott Manor. It was surely tantalizing to read that long
list of the treasure in English, covering eighteen pages in the vellum
book—plates and dishes of gold, jewels in profusion, collars of pearls,
jewelled swords, packets of uncut gems, golden cups, and “seven chests
of yron each fylled wyth monie,” a list of objects which, if sold, meant
an ample fortune.
Accompanied by Reilly, I visited the house at Kilburn wherein the secret
tragedy had been enacted. We had but little difficulty in finding it, a
good-sized semi-detached place lying back behind some dark green
railings. A board showed that it was to let, and having obtained the key
at a house-agent’s in Edgware Road, we went over it as prospective
tenants. The furniture had been removed, but on the floor-boards of the
upstairs room in which the helpless man had been so foully done to death
we found a small dark stain, the size of a man’s palm—the stain of
blood. It was, according to Reilly, the exact spot where the poor young
fellow lay, his life-blood having soaked through the carpet.
We looked outside the window, and there saw the great hole in the
conservatory roof through which my companion had fallen, while a piece
of broken lattice-work hung away from the wall. The autumn sunshine fell
full upon that dark stain on the floor, but the attention of the
observer would not have been attracted thereby; it was brown, like other
stains one so often sees upon deal flooring, and none would ever dream
that it was evidence of a foul and cowardly crime.
On the following day I called upon Dorothy at Cornwall Road, and almost
her first words were to convey to me a piece of news from
Rockingham—namely, that old Ben Knutton had met with a fatal accident.
While in a state of intoxication two nights before he had attempted to
cross the river by the foot-bridge that leads to Great Easton, had
missed his footing, fallen in, and been drowned. There was no suspicion
of foul play, as a young labourer named Thoms had been with him, and had
been unable to save him. The inquest had been held on the previous day
at the Sonde Arms, and a verdict of “Accidental Death” returned.
The old fellow was a sad inebriate, it was true, but in common with
Dorothy, I felt a certain amount of regret at his tragic end. Had it not
been for the presence of a witness I should certainly have suspected
foul play.
“Have you heard anything of your friends Bennett or Purvis?” I asked her
as we sat together.
“Mr. Purvis was here last night,” she answered. “He has told me how you
entrapped them in that subterranean passage.”
“Then they have escaped!” I cried. “Tell me how they managed it!”
“It appears that on leaving the Manor, and descending into the secret
way, they found that you had removed the planks that bridged the well.
They returned to the Manor only to discover that you had also closed
down the exit securely.”
“What did they do then?”
“Well, for a time there seemed no solution of the problem until Mr.
Bennett, more ingenious than the rest, suggested that they should dig a
hole straight upwards from the roof of the passage. This they did, and
in half an hour emerged in the centre of a cornfield!”
“By Jove!” I cried, laughing. “I never thought of that! Then they are
all four back in London again?”
“I think so. It seems as though they have, like you, given up all hope
of making any discovery.”
“Yes,” I said, with a sigh, “we are, unfortunately, no nearer the truth
than we were when we started.” My eye fell upon the mantelshelf, and I
noticed that in place of the portrait of the dead man there was now a
photograph of a well-known actor. She had removed it, and had probably
placed the picture among her most treasured possessions.
This thought pained me. It was on the tip of my tongue to refer to it,
but I feared to give her annoyance.
I openly declare that I now thought far more of my sweet and winsome
love than I did of that sordid treasure. The first-named was a living
reality, the soft-voiced woman who was my all-in-all; but the latter was
nothing more than a mere phantom, as fortune is so very often.
While my friends still discussed the ways and means of solving the
problem I thought only of her, for I loved her with all my heart and
with all my soul. How I wished she would set my troubled thoughts at
rest regarding the poor fellow who had been done to death at Kilburn,
yet when I recollected the reason of her secrecy I saw that she was held
silent for fear of consequences. Hers was a secret—but surely not a
guilty one.
Still she had admitted to me having loved him, and that had aroused the
fierce fire of jealousy within me. I felt that I had a right to know who
and what he was.
We sat chatting together, as lovers will, and when evening fell we went
out together and dined at a restaurant. I suppose that if we had
regarded conventionalities I ought not to have visited her at her
lodgings, yet I found her a woman overwhelmed by a sadness; one in whose
life there had been so little joy, and whose future was only a blank sea
of despair. My presence, I think, cheered her, for her soft cheeks
flushed, her eyes grew bright when she chatted with me, and her breast
heaved and fell when I spoke of my affection.
She was so different to other women; so calm, so thoughtful, so sweet of
temperament, though I knew that in her inner consciousness she was
suffering all the tortures which come to the human mind when
overshadowed by a crime. It was because of that I tried to take her out
of herself, to give her a little pleasure beyond that dreary street in
Bayswater, and to prevent her thoughts ever wandering back to that
terrible night in Kilburn when those brutal men forced her to touch the
cold, white face of the dead.
When dining together in the big hall of the Trocadero the crowd and the
music brightened her, for evening gaiety in London is infectious, and
she expressed pleasure that we had gone there. Over dinner I told her
how for the present we had abandoned the search at Caldecott, and
related to her Usher’s remarkable story.
“And this man Bennett actually cast the poor fellow away without food or
water!” she cried, when she had heard me to the end. “Why, that was as
much murder as the shooting of the unfortunate Dane! I hate the man,
Paul!” she added. “Truth to tell, I myself live in fear of him. He would
not hesitate to kill me—that I know.”
“No, no,” I said reassuringly. “He dare not do that. Besides, you now
have me as your protector, Dorothy.” And I looked straight into her
great dark eyes.
“Ah! I know,” she faltered. “But—well, there are reasons why I fear he
may carry out his threat.”
“What!” I exclaimed. “Has he threatened you?”
She was silent for a few moments, then nodded in the affirmative.
I knew the reason. It was because she was aware of the secret at
Kilburn. Perhaps he feared she might expose him, just as ten years
before he had feared Robert Usher.
“If he attempts to harm you it will be the worse for him!” I cried
quickly. “Remember we have in Seal and Usher witnesses who could bring
him to the criminal dock. At present, however, both men are remaining
silent. The whole truth is not yet revealed. There is still another
crime of which certain persons have knowledge—a tragedy in London, not
long ago.”
Her face blanched in an instant, and next second I regretted that I had
hinted at her secret.
“What is that?” she asked in a hollow voice, not daring to look me in
the face.
But I managed to turn the conversation without replying to her question,
and resolved that in future, although anxiety might consume me, I would
refrain from further mention of the ugly affair. She would tell me
nothing—indeed, how could she, implicated as she was, even though
innocent?
Yet I hated to think that my love should be an associate of those
malefactors, and was striving to devise a plan by which she might escape
from her terrible thraldom.
After dinner I suggested the play, and we went together to see an
amusing comedy. But afterwards, as I sat beside her in the cab on our
return to Bayswater, she sighed, saying—
“Forgive me, Paul, but somehow I fear the future. I am too happy—and I
know that this perfect contentment cannot last. I am one of those doomed
from birth to disappointment and unhappiness. It has been ever so
throughout my life—it is so now.”
“No, no, dearest,” I declared, taking her little gloved hand in mine.
“You have enemies, just as I have, but if we assist each other we may
successfully checkmate them. This fight for a fortune is a desperate
one, it is true, but up to the present it has been a drawn game, while
we hold the honours—our mutual love.”
She gripped my hand in silence, but it was more expressive than any
words could have been. I knew that she placed her whole trust in me.
Yes, ours was a strange wooing—brief, passionate, and complete. But I
felt confident that, even though she might have entertained an affection
for the man so ruthlessly assassinated at Kilburn, she loved me truly
and well.
In that belief I remained perfectly content. She was mine, mine alone,
and I desired no more. For me her affection was all-sufficient. I had
searched for a hidden treasure, and found the greatest on earth—perfect
love.
CHAPTER XXXII
WHAT WE DISCOVERED AT THE RECORD OFFICE
A MONTH dragged slowly by. I saw Dorothy daily, and we were happy in
each other’s love. She had resumed her post of typewriter at an
insurance office in Moorgate Street, and on her return home would
generally spend each evening with me. Robert Usher continued to live
with me in Keppel Street and proved a most entertaining companion, and
Philip Reilly, bitterly disappointed, had also returned to the bank,
while Job Seal had sailed from Cardiff with his usual cargo of steam
coal for Malta.
Worn out with all the confusion, we had all of us given up hope of ever
discovering the treasure, and my chief regret was that we had played
such havoc with the interior of Caldecott Manor. What the landlord’s
claim for dilapidations would be I dreaded to think.
Usher was, of course, a typical adventurer. His whole life had been
spent upon the sea, and yet, curiously enough, his speech was never
interlarded with nautical phrases like Seal’s. Some men, however long
they are at sea, never become “salts,” and Robert Usher was one of them.
Over our pipes he often related to me his exciting adventures as slave
in the interior of Morocco, and times without number gave me vivid
descriptions of the old _Seahorse_ as he found it held beneath the clear
water by the ledge of rock. At first it had puzzled me greatly why the
water had not entered the cabins when the flood closed over the vessel,
but both Seal and I recollected how, after hacking away the growth of
weeds and shells from the deck, the men had found the hatches covered
tightly with a kind of waterproof tarpauling, which had evidently been
placed there by those on board to prevent the heavy sea that washed the
decks from entering the cabins. The commander and his officers had
closed themselves down tightly, trusting to the one officer and his men
on deck to manage the ship, but, alas! they had all perished.
At first it had seemed utterly incredible that the ship had retained its
buoyancy all those years, and that the water had never entered; yet it
was evident that the decomposition of the bodies of those unfortunate
victims had generated gases that had increased its buoyancy, and that,
being held within the river bar, there were no waves to beat and break
the thick, green glass of the tightly-secured windows. Had the vessel
sunk in deep water, the pressure of the latter would, of course, have
broken the glass at once, but resting on that soft, sandy bed, only just
submerged, it had been preserved quite intact through all those years, a
tribute to the stability of the stout oak and teak of which our
forefathers constructed ships in Queen Elizabeth’s day.
I introduced Robert Usher to the secretary of the Royal Geographical
Society, and he was invited to deliver a lecture before the Fellows
describing the interior of Morocco, about which so very little is known
even in these days. His wanderings in the Anti-Atlas and the Jeb Grus to
Figig, his captivity in Aksabi and with the warlike Riffs, and the
information he gave regarding the power of the latter and the weakness
of the Sultan’s army were extremely interesting, and were afterwards
printed in the journal of the society as a permanent record. His map of
the sources of the Muluya River, on Jeb Aiahin, in the Great Atlas, was
of considerable value, and was afterwards marked on the map of Morocco.
It will, indeed, be found upon the revised maps of that country now
published.
In the privacy of my sitting-room he related many stories regarding the
man known as Black Bennett. As far as I could discover, the latter had
led a curious double life for years. He possessed a small but
comfortable house out at Epping, where he posed as a retired sea
captain, but now and then he would disappear, sometimes for a whole
year, occupying his time in depredations on the sea. The common belief
in England is that piracy is dead, but it was certainly not so a dozen
years ago, when Chinese waters were not watched by Japanese and European
war vessels as they now are. To commit acts of piracy in the Yellow Seas
would nowadays be a difficult matter.
About Harding, the man who had so cleverly copied the documents I had
taken from the _Seahorse_, Usher told me a good deal. Formerly a
professor at Cambridge, he had committed some fraud, and fearing arrest
had, it seemed, escaped to sea. An adventurer of the same type as
Bennett, the pair became inseparable, and Harding had assisted the
former in many of his most daring schemes.
So the weeks went on, autumn drew to a close, and I began to glance at
the _Lancet_ anxiously each week to ascertain where a _locum tenens_ was
wanted, for, even though compelled to go to the country and leave my
love alone and at the mercy of that quartette of unscrupulous
scoundrels, I saw myself compelled to earn my living.
I recollected that long and tantalizing list of gold and jewels in the
vellum book which I had given again into Mr. Staffurth’s hands to
re-examine, and sighed that they were not mine that I might marry
Dorothy and give her a fitting and comfortable home.
One day I received quite an unexpected visit from Mr. Staffurth. As soon
as he entered my room I saw by his flushed cheeks and excited manner
that something unusual had occurred. He had even forgotten to remove his
big spectacles, as he always did before he went out.
“It’s briefly this,” he said in reply to my eager demand. “The day
before yesterday, while going through that vellum book again, there were
two things that struck me for the first time. The first you will
recollect, namely, that in the covers and on various folios is written
in brown ink, very faded, and at a different date than when the book was
first compiled, the numerical three. There are no fewer than nine huge
threes in different parts of the book, but none of them have anything
whatever to do with the context. The mystery of that sign puzzled me. It
seemed as though it were placed there with some distinct object, for
each was carefully drawn, and so boldly that it was evidently intended
to arrest attention.”
“I recollect quite distinctly,” I said, interested. “I pointed them out
to you one day, but they did not then appear to strike you as curious.”
“No,” answered the old man, “I was too engrossed in deciphering the
manuscript at the time. But the second discovery I have made is still
more curious, for I find in the back of the cover, which, as you know,
is lined with vellum, there is written in the same hand as that which
penned the book itself the curious entry: ‘3ELIZ:43.5.213.’ At first I
was much puzzled by it, but after a good deal of reflection I disposed
of the threes at each end among those in the body of the book, and read
the entry as a date, namely, the twenty-first day of May in the
forty-third year of the reign of Elizabeth, or 1591. This aroused my
curiosity, and I lost no time in searching at the Record Office for any
documents bearing that date. I spent all yesterday there, and at last my
search among the indices was rewarded, for I found an entry which
indicated something of interest preserved among the Oblata Rolls. I have
seen it, and I want you to come to Chancery Lane and assist me in
copying it.”
“When? Now?” I cried in excitement.
“Certainly. I have a cab at the door.”
On our drive Staffurth told me little regarding his find, declaring that
I should be allowed to inspect it in due course. You may, however,
imagine my own state of mind, for I saw how highly excited the old
expert was himself, although he strove not to show it.
Arrived at the new Record Office, Staffurth, who was well known there as
a searcher, filled up a request form for No. 26,832 of the Oblata Rolls,
and in due course an attendant handed to us at the desk, whereat we had
taken seats, a small roll of rather coarse parchment, to which were
attached three old red seals and a tablet bearing the catalogue number.
Staffurth unrolled it before me and exhibited the three signatures at
foot. They were those of “Clement Wollerton,” “John Ffreeman,” and
“Bartholomew da Schorno.”
My eager eyes devoured it. Near the foot was sketched a strange device,
very much like a plan, for in the centre of three unequal triangles was
a small circle, and with them certain cabalistic signs.
“You see it is unfortunately in cipher,” Staffurth pointed out. “But it
no doubt has something to do with the treasure.”
“But we have the key,” I exclaimed. “It is written in the vellum book.”
He shook his white head, saying: “No. I have already tried it. Our key
is useless. This is entirely different.”
“It may be a copy of the document sold by Knutton,” I cried. “Possibly
it has been placed among the Government records for safety, in case the
Knuttons should lose the one entrusted to their care.”
“Possibly,” was his answer. “But our key to the cipher gives us
absolutely no assistance. What I want you to do is to copy it. Take that
pen and write down the letters at my dictation.”
I obeyed, and with care printed in capitals as he read them off as
follows—
HPSEWXOQHWHPBARLHEOWC MRS OWCWPASROOBK LPC AXHAHBXHO BOW RSO
BOWUAC SOP KSRSEBBNK PUA CJOOALAJOFCZXHO OKYSOP PORCJU O LP
BRRIPCPCO BALCJO OLPROLLPO SB OO WRCRR XHA CFA XH BSJSQOM
ECLSXISPBNCXCMOHOLEWXIO EHOBI OB LBS
There were some forty lines, all as utterly unintelligible as the
extract given above. The parchment was yellow, and here and there were
damp stains where the ink had faded until the deciphering of the
capitals was a matter of some difficulty. But, with the practised eye of
an expert, old Mr. Staffurth read off the rather difficult Italian hand
just as easily as a newspaper.
He showed me the great difference in the English hand in Elizabeth’s day
to the Italian, and we concluded that it was in the autography of
Bartholomew da Schorno himself. But, possessing no key to the cipher,
neither of us was hopeful of reading the statement contained therein. I
could not help thinking that the key in the vellum book would be of some
use to us, but my friend was quite positive that it had nothing whatever
to do with the present cryptic writing.
The crisp parchment was folded at the bottom, and through this fold
three slits were cut, upon which pieces of parchment like broad tapes
were threaded. Upon each was a seal, one of them that of Bartholomew,
bearing the leopard rampant.
The curious device near the end of the document I copied as exactly as I
could, and when, after Staffurth had puzzled over the yellow screed for
an hour, we were about to hand it back to the attendant, the
assistant-keeper approached my friend and, greeting him, asked—
“What do you find of interest in that roll, Mr. Staffurth? It has been
in request by several people during the past day or two.”
“Has any one else copied it?” I demanded breathlessly.
“Yes. There were two men looking at it three days ago, and they took a
copy.”
“Can you describe them?” asked Staffurth, dumfounded, for, like me, he
feared that we had been again forestalled.
“They were fair, both of them. One was evidently well-versed in
palæography. He was a thin, tall man, with a slight impediment in his
speech.”
Harding had been there, without a doubt!
“How did they discover it?” inquired Staffurth.
“By the unusual name—Italian, isn’t it? The roll is catalogued under
that. You found it in the same manner, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” the old expert responded. “But I suppose no one has ever
discovered the key to the cipher?”
“No. Lost centuries ago, I expect.”
“Unless that document of Knutton’s contains it,” I remarked to my
friend.
“Ah!” he gasped. “I never thought of that! This may be the absolute
record with the plan, and the Knutton parchment the key to the cipher.”
“If so, then we’ve lost it! We are too late,” I remarked, my heart
sinking.
“Professor Campbell, of Edinburgh, was much interested in it, and tried
to make it out two years ago, but utterly failed,” was the
assistant-keeper’s remark, and a few moments later, after we had handed
the roll back to the attendant, he left us, and I returned with
Staffurth to his house in Clapham.
Well versed as Staffurth was in the art of cryptic writing as practised
during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, he utterly failed to
decipher what I had copied. The signatures alone were in plain
script—all the rest in cipher.
I took a copy of the document for myself, and through nearly a fortnight
spent my leisure in trying, with the aid of the key in the vellum book,
to decipher the first line, all, however, in vain. The cryptogram was a
complicated one in any case. Staffurth consulted two men he knew who
were experts in such things, but both gave it up as a private cipher
that could not be read without a key.
One night, however, while lying in bed reflecting, as all of us do when
our minds are troubled, that oft-repeated numerical three suddenly
occurred to me. Could it be possible that it was the key to the cipher?
This idea became impressed upon me, so I rose and, going into my
sitting-room, lit my lamp, and there and then commenced to work upon it.
After several trials in taking three as the key-number, I at last made
the experiment of taking C for A, and so on, writing the third letter
from the one required. The alphabet I wrote then read as follows—
ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ
CFILORUXADGJMPSVYBEHKNQTWZ
Then, with my heart beating wildly, I turned to decipher the document,
but even then I found it useless. Indeed, I spent the remainder of that
night in vainly trying to solve the puzzle.
That same afternoon I went to Staffurth’s, told him of my inspiration,
and showed him my alphabet. Adjusting his big spectacles, he regarded it
for a long time in silence, but I saw that, to him, mine was a new and
rather striking idea. He took a sheet of paper and tried time after time
to make sense of that first long line of bewildering capitals, acting
upon the supposition that three was the number.
Suddenly the old man cried excitedly, turning to me—
“I’ve got it! At last! See! The golden number is three. Your alphabet is
the correct one, only the letters are reversed three by three. Take
these first six, and then reverse them. You have SP HXWE, which by aid
of your alphabet reads: ‘On thys’——The Secret, whatever it is, is
ours—ours!”
CHAPTER XXXIII
WE DECIPHER THE PARCHMENT
OUR excitement over the discovery was unbounded. Old Mr. Staffurth’s
announcement seemed hardly possible. His hand trembled as he held the
paper whereon I had copied the precious document catalogued among the
Oblata Rolls, while I, bending over him, stood eager but speechless.
“See!” he cried. “The cipher is cunningly reversed, in order to make it
more complicated. The big threes written by the old Italian were drawn
as a silent indication of the correct solution of this document.
Besides, there is before and after the entry of the date of the document
two threes, one at each end—meaning first the third letter, and
secondly each three letters reversed.”
“Let’s decipher it at once—whatever it is!” I exclaimed, hastily
pulling up a chair to the table beside him and taking a sheet of blank
paper and pencil. Imagine for yourself the tension of my mind at that
critical moment. What might not be concealed behind that bewildering
array of letters? Was the secret of the whereabouts of the treasure
written there, or was it, after all, only some unimportant record having
no reference at all to the hidden loot?
The old man was staring at the document with a puzzled air, for it was
apparently not so easy to decipher as he had believed.
“Dictate it to me, and I will write,” I urged quickly, holding up my
pencil ready. The suspense was irritating. We both of us were impatient
to get at the truth.
Slowly, and not without a good deal of difficulty, Staffurth reversed
each three letters of the cipher, three by three, and then reading them
by aid of the alphabet I had compiled, gave down the beginning of the
document to me as follows—
SP HXWE HQOPHWRABEH LCWO SR MCWO AP WO
On thys twenty-first daye of Maye in ye
RSKBO CPL HXABHAOHX WOBO SR WO BCAUPO SR
foure and thirtieth yere of ye raigne of
SKB ESKNBAUPO JCLAO OJAZCFOHX YKOPO SR
our souvrigne Ladie Elizabeth Quene of
OPUJCPLO RRBCPIO CPL ABOJCPLO LOROPLOB SR WO
Englande Ffrance and Irelande Defender of ye
RRCAHX A FCBHXSJSMOQ LC EIXSBPS XCNO MCLO
Ffaith I Bartholomew da Schorno have made
HXWE EOIBOH BOISBL.
thys Secret Record.
Our excitement knew no bounds. It was, after all, a secret record, and
without doubt it referred to the treasure! It is always interesting work
to decipher an old document, but more especially so one that no man has
been able to read for ages. Imagine yourself for a moment in my place,
with a fortune attached to the revelation of that secret!
Old Mr. Staffurth’s voice trembled, as did his thin, white hands. As a
palæographist he had at times made some remarkable discoveries while
delving in the dusty parchment records of bygone ages, but surely none
had ever affected him like this. We were learning the place where a
fortune lay hidden.
For close on two hours we worked together incessantly, slowly obtaining
the right equivalents of the cipher, but very often making errors in
calculation with the puzzling threes. The writing was simple after all,
but at the same time difficult to decipher, requiring great care and
patience. At length, however, I sat with the whole of the secret
revealed before me, written down in plain English, surely one of the
most interesting documents among the thousands preserved in the national
archives.
The record, which we read and re-read a dozen times with breathless
interest, was as follows—
_ON THYS TWENTY-FIRST DAYE OF MAYE IN YE FOURE and thirtieth
yere of ye Raigne of our Souvrigne Ladie Elizabeth, Quene of
Englande Ffrance and Irelande, Defender of ye Ffaith, I
Bartholomew da Schorno have made thys secret Record._
_TO EIGHT of ye men who fought wyth me on ye Great Unicorne
against ye Spanysh galleon and who made covenant was ye place of
ye loote knowne. In all those men dyd I place my trust. One
Robert Dafte hath broken hys oath and hath reveled ye secret,
for he hath tolde before hys death unto hys wyfe ye place into
which we walled ye golde. Therefore it hath become necessarie in
tyme to remove ye treasure which we captured from ye Spanysh and
from ye Barbarians of Algiers unto a place of safetie from
thieves, from conspiratiors, and from ye enemies of oure Quene._
_THEREFORE be it known unto ye person who may rede thys my
Record that on thys daye above written the whole of what I
possess has been removed from ye priest’s hole in ye Manor of
Caldecott and concealed in a place more fytting and secure. The
knowledge of it now remains only wyth my trusted friends Clement
Wollerton and John Ffreeman, the two signatories to ye present
document. Be it knowne also therefore that ye secret covenant
playced in ye hand of Richard Knutton is now made by me null and
voide, although my testamentary disposition of ye golde jewels
and all other articles whych I Bartholomew da Schorno, noble of
Ferrara, Commendatore of the Order of San Stefano, have
treasured shall remain as I have before written; that is to saye
that should ye Knights of Saint Stephen not require funds ye
golde is to become ye sole and absolute property of ye youngest
childe of ye family of Clement Wollerton, of Stybbington, in ye
Countie of Huntyngedon, but without any parte or portion to go
to ye familie of Richard Knutton, ye last mentioned havyng
wickedly and maliciously conspyred wyth ye wyfe of ye saide
Robert Dafte to steale and take possession of ye treasure during
our absence on ye seas._
_AND THEREFORE be it known unto ye person who gains ye secret of
thys cipher that I wyth mine owne hand have written thys my
record for two purposes. In ye firste playce to make it plaine
unto all men that it is my ardent desire to assist ye worke of
ye release of Christians in slavery in Barberie, and secondlie
to reveale unto ye one who deciphers my record ye place where ye
golde wyll be found. Let hym rede and marke well._
_FOURE MILES from Stamforde towne on ye great roade into
Scotlande and to ye left hande, is Tyckencote Laund. Within thys
woode have we buried ye treasure three arms-lengths deepe, and
to recover it ye directions whych herewyth I give must be
followed closely. Enter ye woode by ye path leading through ye
fieldes at ye fourth mylestone from Stamford towne and passe ye
lyne of six oakes always facing Empinghame church until ye Three
Systers are found. Midway between ye three, at twenty-and-nyne
foot-paces from ye south, have we planted an oak sapling and
beneath it will be found hydden ye golde of ye Spanyards and ye
jewels of ye Corsairs._
(Here followed the roughly-executed plan which consisted of three
triangles at unequal distance from each other, and a crude sketch of the
tree beneath which the gold was hidden. Across the sketch was an arrow,
presumably showing the direction of the sunrise, and a second one with
the word “Empinghame” written at its barb.)
_LET HE WHO fyndeth thys my wealthe carrie out my written will,
taking unto hymselfe one of the chests of monie as hys
recompense. But should he not give up ye remainder in full unto
ye last descendant of ye Wollertons of Stybbington my curse
shall for ever reste upon hym. That what is herein written is
true, we who alone knowe ye secret of ye saide treasure and have
taken oure oathes to keepe it untyl the golde should be wanted
by ye Knightes of Saint Stephen have hereunto sett oure hands
and seale on ye daye and yere first above written._
CLEMENT WOLLERTON.
JOHN FFREEMAN.
BARTHOLOMEW DA SCHORNO.
The spot to which the treasure had been secretly removed from that
upstairs chamber in Caldecott Manor was now actually revealed to us! But
we entertained a horrible suspicion that Bennett and his friends were
equally in the possession of the secret. The suggestion that the
document sold by the dead man Knutton contained a key to the cipher was,
of course, now dismissed; but we were nevertheless filled with fear that
the quartette might, by some means or other, have solved the problem,
just as we had done.
Philip Reilly, although he had returned to his desk at the bank, had
spent his spare time down at Hammersmith, and had watched the movements
of the four men. He had once or twice told me that he believed some
fresh move was being made, and he had also discovered that the fourth
man, he who had charge of Dorothy on that fatal night at Kilburn—a
short, dark-bearded, thick-set fellow known as Martin—was in reality a
low-class solicitor named Martin Franklin, who rented a small back
office in the Minories and appeared to have very few clients.
Staffurth agreed with me that we should lose no time in obeying the
directions given in the document before us, therefore I drove into the
city before the banks closed, and showed Philip the secret revealed. On
reading it he became highly excited, as may be imagined, and, having
obtained two days’ leave of absence from his manager, we went out and
bought several useful implements, including a saw, three shovels,
pickaxes, etc. Then, having sent them to King’s Cross cloak-room to
await us, we drove home to Chelsea, where we informed Usher of the good
news, and found him ready and anxious to render us assistance.
Afterwards I went on to Dorothy and showed her the solution of the
cipher. She seemed, however, apprehensive of some evil befalling me.
That night, having purchased an Ordnance map in Fleet Street, the three
of us left London, travelling to the quiet, old-world town of Stamford,
and putting up at that old-fashioned hostelry the Stamford Hotel.
Perhaps you, my reader, know the quaint, sleepy old Lincolnshire town,
with its Gothic architecture, its Elizabethan houses, its many church
spires, and its noisy cobbles. Thirty years ago, before the railways
came, it was a commercial centre and a busy, prosperous place; but
nowadays its streets are deserted, its fine old churches seem to be
tumbling to decay, and only on market days does the typically English
town awaken from its lethargy. Very picturesque is its situation, lying
behind the broad, fertile meadows of the Welland, with Burghley
House—that magnificent palace immortalized by Tennyson—in its
immediate vicinity.
It was not, however, to enjoy the pleasant peace of Stamford town that
we had come there. We did not arrive until nearly ten o’clock at night,
and were, of course, compelled to leave our implements at the railway
station. To take them to the hotel might arouse suspicion. Therefore we
ate our supper in the coffee-room—cold roast beef and ale—retired soon
after, and arose early next day, after a night of sleepless impatience.
In the privacy of Reilly’s room we decided upon a plan of action. With
Usher I was to hire a trap and drive to Tickencote village, which, we
learnt, was three miles away, past Casterton, on the Great North Road,
and then dismiss the conveyance, while Reilly was to go to the station,
obtain the tools, and follow us in a separate trap hired from the
George. At Tickencote village we were to meet and go on together to the
place indicated in the old Italian’s record.
Immediately after breakfast we parted company and Reilly went out, after
which we ordered a dog-cart and drove along the straight, broad highway,
with its quantity of telegraph lines at the side, the great road which
runs from London to York. The autumn morning was fresh, even a trifle
chilly, but the season was a late one, and the leaves had not yet
fallen, although the frosts had already turned them to their bright red
and golden tints. Beyond Great Casterton Church we crossed a bridge at
the end of the village, and a square tower among the trees in the
distance was pointed out by our driver as Tickencote Church. Arrived at
the village, which was just off the high road, we entered the inn.
Over a glass of ale we learnt several things we wished to know, namely,
that there was Tickencote Park and Tickencote Laund. The park commenced
at the junction of the high road with the short road leading up to the
village, while the Laund lay back from the road behind some fields
nearly a mile farther on. I learnt this by chatting with the landlady
about fox-hunting. There were always foxes in Tickencote Laund, she
informed me, and hounds were sure to have sport whenever they drew it.
While there it suddenly occurred to me that if Philip arrived with a
collection of tools our visit would at once arouse the curiosity of the
villagers. Therefore I whispered to Usher and we left the place,
eventually meeting our friend on the high road a quarter of a mile away.
He handed out the tools from the trap, then, jumping down, told the man
to return for him at four to Tickencote village.
In order not to attract any attention we walked on, leaving Reilly to
carry the picks and shovels at a short distance behind. Even there we
were not safe, for we knew not whether our enemies had secretly watched
our departure from London. Dorothy was always impressing upon me her
suspicion that the men kept continual observation on me, while Usher
knew Bennett well enough to be certain that he would not give up the
chance of a fortune without some desperate effort.
Nevertheless, keeping a watchful eye everywhere, we walked along the
wide muddy high road, impatient to arrive at our goal, and eager to dig
at the spot indicated by the roughly-drawn plan upon that faded
parchment.
CHAPTER XXXIV
OUR SEARCH AT TICKENCOTE AND ITS RESULTS
PRESENTLY we stood at an iron milestone which had, I suppose, replaced
the old stone road-mark of Elizabethan days, and saw thereon the
words—“Stamford, 4 miles.” Then, looking across to the left, we noticed
a path leading across the stubble to a long, dark wood.
At the gate leading into the field we awaited Philip, and, there being
nobody in the vicinity, he quickly joined us, and we all three sped
along the path beside the high thorn-hedge until we came to the border
of the wood. While on the road we saw, lying in a distant hollow, a
church spire which, from our map, we supposed to be that of Empingham.
The path ran along the outskirts of the wood, but we soon found a
moss-grown stile, and crossing it continued along a by-path which was
evidently very seldom used, for it led into the heart of the dark trees,
thick undergrowth, and bracken.
“Remember the six oaks in line,” Usher remarked, halting and looking
round, for he was used to exploration in savage lands, and his keen eyes
were everywhere.
We, however, failed to discover the trees indicated, and so ill-defined
and overgrown was the path we traversed that we were very soon off it,
wandering about without any landmark.
I pointed out that a line of oaks existing in Elizabeth’s time would
most probably have decayed or been cut down long ago. Oak is a valuable
wood in these days, and during recent years the woodman has played havoc
with the fine old trees that once existed in our English parks and
forests. Even great forests themselves have been cut down and the roots
grubbed up within our own short recollections. In more than one spot
there, indeed, we discovered marks of the woodman’s work—old stumps
where the ivy was trying to hide their nakedness, and in two places we
found a newly-felled beech awaiting the woodman’s drag.
The six oaks we at last discovered—or rather two of them, both too
decayed to be worthy of the timber merchant’s attention. In line were
four stumps, all utterly rotten and half overgrown with bindweed, moss,
and ivy. Then, standing beside the last stump of the line, we saw
something white in the gloom, and went forward to examine it, finding it
to be a large piece of grey rock cropping up from the ground, almost
covered with yellow lichen, tiny ferns growing in luxuriance in every
crevice. Before us, at some distance away, gleamed two other rocks, one
quite high, and the other only two feet out of the earth. There were
three in all—the Three Sisters, we supposed.
“Twenty-nine paces from the south,” Reilly remarked.
“That’s the south, where you are standing, doctor!” Usher cried, for he
had taken his bearing by the sun.
I began at once to walk forward in the direction of the two rocks before
me and midway, counting the paces. There were big trees everywhere, for
we were in the thickest part of the wood, therefore I could not walk in
a straight line, and was compelled to judge the extra paces I took.
At last I reached the twenty-ninth, and it brought me to a stump of a
giant tree that had been recently felled and carted away. Usher bent
quickly to examine the wood, and declared it to be oak.
Was this the sapling planted by Bartholomew da Schorno to mark the spot
where he and his two companions had buried the treasure?
Could the Spanish gold be concealed beneath those enormous roots? Was a
fortune lying there hidden beneath our feet?
Excited as we all were, we did not act with any precipitation. My other
two companions made measurements, each walking twenty-nine paces, and
after some consultation both declared that I was correct. The stump was
actually that of the oak planted by the Italian, and our next task was
to remove it.
Even though the sun shone brightly, it was damp and gloomy within that
lonely wood. The undergrowth and bracken were full of moisture, and
already our clothes were wet through. We lost no time, however, in
setting to work to dig out the enormous root beneath which we hoped to
discover that of which we had so long been in search.
All three of us took off coats and waistcoats, and with our spades first
dug a deep trench round the stump, and sawed through the main roots that
ran deep into the ground in all directions, hoping by this to be able to
remove the main portion of the wood bodily. To the uninitiated the
“grubbing-up” of a tree root is a very difficult operation, and through
the whole morning we worked without being able to move the big mass an
inch. Having sawed off all the roots we could find we attached a rope to
it and harnessed ourselves, all of us pulling our hardest. Yet it would
not budge.
Of a sudden, while we sat upon the obstinate oak-root, perspiring and
disappointed, a way out of the difficulty suggested itself to me. Why
not dig down beside it and then drive a tunnel at right angles beneath?
I made the suggestion, and at once we commenced to suit the action to
the word, first digging a big hole some eight feet deep and six across,
and then driving at right angles beneath the root.
We had been at work over an hour, slowly excavating beneath the base of
the root, when of a sudden my pick struck wood. My companions with their
shovels quickly cleared away the earth, when there became disclosed to
us a sodden, half rotten plank set up on end. The discovery showed that
we had come upon something unusual, especially as the spade worked by
Usher revealed a few moments later two other boards placed so closely in
a line with the first that they seemed joined together.
Twenty minutes afterwards we found five thick planks, each half a foot
wide, placed together in a straight line, as though it were the side of
a square subterranean chamber that had been excavated and boarded up so
as to prevent the earth from falling in.
All three of us were almost beside ourselves with impatience to break
down that wooden barrier. I took the crowbar and inserted its curved end
between two of the stout elm planks in an endeavour to break out one of
them. The attempt was, however, futile.
Indeed, it took us another half-hour before we had sufficiently
excavated the earth, top and bottom, to allow us to make a satisfactory
attempt. At last, however, I again placed the crowbar beneath the
blackened, sodden wood, and we all three jumped against it with all our
might. It did not yield at first, but, working by slow degrees, we
gradually loosened it, and then of a sudden the heavy bolts or
fastenings within gave way with a loud crack and the plank was wrenched
out, disclosing a dark cavity beyond.
Usher struck a match and held it within, but its feeble light revealed
nothing. We wondered if, after all, someone had been before us, ages ago
perhaps, for the chamber seemed hollow and empty.
Without loss of time we broke out three other planks from the side of
the wooden wall, and then, lighting a candle, I stooped and entered the
place, eager to ascertain the truth.
The moment I stepped within a loud cry involuntarily escaped my lips,
for my gladdened eyes fell upon some dark objects which lay piled one
upon the other in the centre of the small, close-smelling place.
I took the candle nearer, and saw that they were great, iron-bound
chests—the chests which, according to the cipher record, were filled
with gold!
In an instant my companions were at my side, eager and wild with
excitement as myself. Each of them lit candles, and we examined the
place together. It was not square but oblong, and we had entered at the
end. All around were rough-hewn planks upon which were growing great
fungi; the roof also being of stout oak planks and beams, one root of
the great oak had grown through, twisted grotesquely, and entered the
ground beneath, while the planks on the right side had been forced in by
the tree’s growth. The place was not quite high enough to allow us to
stand upright, yet it seemed far drier than the forest earth we had
excavated outside. On examining the walls I found that the planks had
been soaked in tar to protect them from the ravages of insects, and that
after the place had been constructed the interior had been coated with
pitch to render it as water-tight as possible.
In the centre, piled together, were the huge locked chests and sacks of
leather secured with big leaden seals, almost like that seal on the
Italian document I found on board the _Seahorse_.
To say that we danced for joy would perhaps describe our feelings in
those moments. Fortune was mine at last! Even if the heir to the
treasure were found one chestful of gold was mine by right. I bent, and
by aid of my candle examined the device on the leaden seals, finding it
to be the familiar leopard rampant, the arms of the noble house of Da
Schorno.
Eager to examine the true nature of our find, we all three of us, by
dint of much exertion, managed to move one of the iron-clamped chests
from the others and place it on the ground. Then we set about breaking
off the lid, a difficult matter, for although the iron was rusty those
locked bolts were formidable.
At length, however, we successfully accomplished it, and, raising the
lid, there was disclosed to our dazzled vision a marvellous and
miscellaneous collection of gold and jewels. Indeed, it was filled to
the brim with almost every conceivable article of jewellery, containing
nearly every gem known to the lapidary. Sight of it drew a chorus of
admiration from our lips.
I took out a wonderful collar of magnificent pearls, bearing a splendid
pendant set with a great blood-red ruby, the finest stone I had ever
seen. Even there, in the faint light of the candles, the gem flashed
crimson before our eyes, while the diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds
lying heaped within the chest glittered and gleamed in the light as we
held our candles over them.
Certainly, if every chest—and there were eleven of them in all, beside
eight hide bags—were filled with such things, the value of the treasure
was immense. In our excitement we all three of us plunged our hands in
among the jewels, but Reilly withdrew his quickly, for he received a
sharp cut from some old bejewelled poignard or sword. Although
half-stifled in that narrow place, we opened one of the old bags of
tough, untanned leather, similar to that on board the _Seahorse_, and
found it also full of splendid jewels. A second contained a number of
wonderful jewelled sword-hilts, some of them marvels of old Spanish
workmanship, while in a third were stored jewels roughly cut and set,
evidently loot from the Moors of Barbary.
A second chest we also opened, and so full was it of golden coin that as
we broke open the lid the doubloons fell and scattered about the floor.
I took up a handful and looked at them by the uncertain light. They were
Spanish all of them, mostly of the reigns of Ferdinand and Philip II.
The sight of so much wealth must, I think, have had a curious effect on
us. We scarcely spoke to each other, but with eager fingers quickly
examined the marvellous jewels and cast them aside, only reflecting upon
their value.
When at last I found tongue and endeavoured to calm my wildly-beating
heart, I spoke to my companions regarding the best manner in which to
remove the chests and bags to some place of safety.
“It must be done in absolute secrecy,” I pointed out. “And we must lose
no time in trying to discover the descendant of the Wollertons,
otherwise the Government may seize the whole as treasure-trove.”
Reilly and Usher, who were agreed that to open those remaining chests
and hide bags in that place was impossible, were engaged in replacing
the treasure and closing up the lids securely.
“That’s so,” Reilly answered. “But we shall have a difficulty, I fear,
in removing all this without any one knowing. We shall require a heavy
waggon, in any case,” he added, recollecting the weight of those oak and
iron chests even without their precious contents.
“Well,” I said, much gratified at our success; “we’ve found the
treasure, at any rate.”
“And now, it seems, the difficulty will be to keep it,” laughed Reilly,
holding up a glittering diamond collar and admiring it.
At that instant I chanced to turn towards the hole by which we had
entered and saw, silhouetted against the grey light, the dark figure of
a man.
Next instant the shadow had disappeared. Someone was spying upon us! If
the secret leaked out, then we should, I knew too well, lose everything!
CHAPTER XXXV
THE SPY, AND WHAT HE TOLD US
WITHOUT a second’s hesitation I drew the revolver I now habitually
carried, and, dashing out through the hole, scrambled up to the surface
after the intruder.
Scarcely had I gained my footing above when a shot was fired close to
me, and a bullet whizzed past my head. I looked angrily around, but
could see no one. The man had taken refuge behind one of the trees,
while I stood before him right in the open.
My companions, alarmed by my sudden rush and the report of the pistol,
were next instant beside me, and Usher’s quick eyes in a few seconds
distinguished a slight movement behind a bush a few yards away. He
rushed forward, regardless of consequences, and then I recognized in the
intruder the man Martin Franklin. Seeing that we were all armed he held
up his hands, and from that action we supposed that he was alone, and
that he had fired at me in order to effect his escape.
We quickly closed round him, indignantly demanding his object in spying
upon us, but he only laughed and responded insolently. He was a man of
about forty, dressed in rough grey tweeds and gaiters, in order, I
suppose, to pass as a countryman.
Philip Reilly was furious. He had sprung upon the fellow and with a
quick turn of the wrist had wrenched the weapon from his hand.
“I know you!” he shouted. “You are Martin Franklin, the man who was
present on the night of the murder at Kilburn! You’ll perhaps recollect
that incident—eh?”
The man’s face, in an instant, went pale as death.
“I—I don’t know what you mean, sir!” he answered, with a vain effort to
add indignation to his words.
“Well, perhaps you will when I’m called as witness against you and your
three companions Bennett, Purvis, and Harding,” he answered meaningly.
“Where are they now?”
“In London,” was the fellow’s unwilling response.
Suddenly a brilliant idea occurred to me, and in a loud, threatening
voice I said—
“Now, look here, Mr. Franklin. We may as well speak plainly to you, as
this is no time for beating about the bush. We know sufficient about you
and your scoundrelly companions to give you into the custody of the
first policeman we meet. Understand that.”
The fellow was a coward, we could see. Mention of the tragedy at Kilburn
had sapped his courage utterly, and he now stood before us white,
terror-stricken, glancing wildly around for means of escape. We were,
however, three to one, and he saw how he had fallen as into a trap.
“I fired the shot in order to alarm you,” he faltered, addressing me. “I
had no intention of harming you.”
“But you will recollect who took Miss Dorothy Drummond to that house at
Kilburn, and who forced her to touch the dead man’s face,” Reilly
interposed.
He made no response, for he saw that the secret of the murder was out.
A few minutes later, however, when he had had time for reflection, I
spoke my mind further, saying—
“Now, Mr. Franklin, tell us the truth. You and your friends meant to
possess yourselves of the chests we have just discovered, did you not?”
“We certainly did,” was his prompt response. Then, after a short pause,
he added: “I think, doctor, if you will reflect, you’ll see that even
you and I have certain interests in common.”
“How?” I inquired.
“It is to your interest to preserve the secret of your find, eh? I heard
you say so down there ten minutes ago.”
“Well, I suppose it is!”
“It is also of the highest importance to you to discover the heir of
Clement Wollerton?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, then, I think I can assist you in both,” he answered. “I am not a
murderer, as you believe, although I confess to having assisted the
others in their ingenious conspiracy. I know quite well that sooner or
later they must fall into the hands of the police; nevertheless, if you
will allow me freedom to escape and promise to take no steps against me,
I will, on my part, give you a pledge of secrecy regarding your
discovery of the treasure, and will also warn you of the plot against
your life.”
“Against my life!” I echoed. “What plot?”
“If you agree to my suggestion I will tell you,” answered the
black-bearded coward, who, brought to bay, was now ready to betray his
friends.
I turned to Usher and Reilly, both of whom were of opinion that, secrecy
being necessary, we should make the compact Franklin suggested.
Therefore the fellow took a solemn oath, and there in the dim light
beneath those big forest trees, a few yards from where the treasure lay
in its cunningly-constructed subterranean chamber, he related to us a
very strange story, which we afterwards discovered was the actual truth.
“I am a solicitor, as you perhaps know,” he began. “One day there came
to my office in the Minories a sailor named Henry Harding whom I had met
some three years before, and who was, I knew, a man of considerable
intelligence and education. He had just come home from a round voyage in
the Mediterranean, and showed me the translations of certain curious
documents which had been found on board a derelict. I recognized that
the treasure referred to might still exist, but that to undertake the
search we should require the assistance of at least two other
adventurous spirits like ourselves. Harding said he knew two men of just
the stamp we required, and a couple of days later brought to my office
Bennett and Purvis, the first-named a retired sea-captain and the second
a bookmaker. All three were eager to set to work at once, therefore
after a long consultation we decided upon a plan of action. Purvis was
sent down to Caldecott to make inquiries, and, finding a man named
Knutton still living there, purchased from him a parchment that had been
in his family for generations. Then, recognizing that if the treasure
were actually found it would be useless to us unless we knew the
rightful heir as stated in the old Italian noble’s will, I at once
advertised for information regarding the Wollertons. Within a fortnight
I received a reply from a small country solicitor, and we were very soon
in communication with the heir to the property, although, of course, we
preserved the secret among ourselves.”
“Do you know the identity of the heir at the present moment?” I cried
excitedly, for such information was of greatest importance to us, to
prevent the Government claiming our find as treasure-trove.
“Yes,” he answered, having grown calmer; “I will tell you everything in
due course. Well, having secured the document of the Knuttons, we found
it to be in cipher. Whereupon Harding recollected that in a vellum book
which you took from the _Seahorse_ was a cipher and key which he had not
had time to copy. We were closely watching you, one or other of us, and
knew all your movements; hence we were aware that the book in question
was in the hands of Mr. Staffurth, the palæographist. There seemed only
one way to get possession of the book—namely, to steal it; therefore we
employed a man known to Bennett, and the house at Clapham was
burglariously entered, but the book was found to be locked in a safe
which resisted all attempts upon it. One of the parchments—the one with
the seven signatures—was, however, stolen.”
“And found to be useless,” I remarked laughing.
“Yes,” he admitted. “But before long, after we had contrived to examine
your own rooms, we saw by your movements that you had become aware that
we were trying to forestall you, and that the fight for a fortune would
be a hard one. Knowing this, Bennett and Purvis conceived the idea of
entrapping you in a house which they took at Blackheath and—well, to
put it very plainly—doing away with you. For that purpose the girl
Dorothy Drummond was sent one night to the surgery at Walworth with a
message regarding the illness of a fictitious brother. She knew nothing
of the evil intentions of the men, but, as she afterwards confessed to
me, a sudden thought occurred to her while in the cab with you, and she
refused to allow you to accompany her back to the house.”
“Ah!” I ejaculated. “She has told me that already.”
“What?” cried the man in surprise. “Has she told you anything else?—I
mean the story of the affair at Kilburn?”
“She has told me nothing of that,” I answered. “I wish to hear it from
you according to your promise.”
“Ah, doctor,” he went on, apparently much relieved by my reassuring
words. “You had a narrow escape that night. She saved your life,
although the thought that foul play was intended only came to her
suddenly—one of those strange intuitions which sometimes come to us in
moments of greatest danger. Beware of those men, for there is yet
another plot against you. To-morrow, when you return to London, you will
receive a telegram purporting to come from Miss Drummond. Recollect that
if you keep the appointment it will mean death to you, just as it did to
the unfortunate young fellow at Kilburn.”
“Tell me all about that. What connexion had Dorothy Drummond with that
affair?”
“Let me relate the incidents to you in their proper sequence,” he urged.
“Our suspicion was identical with yours, namely, that the treasure was
secreted somewhere in the Manor House at Caldecott. You, however,
forestalled us in buying out the tenant and obtaining possession of the
house. We watched you living there day after day and working with Mr.
Reilly and Captain Seal, fearing always lest you should make the
discovery. If you had, then it was our intention to either raid the
house during your absence and carry away all we could, or, failing that,
to give information to the Treasury by which the Government would seize
the whole. You see you had no idea of the whereabouts of the heir, and
would, in that case, only be awarded a small sum for the discovery.”
“A nice revenge! It bears the mark of Black Bennett,” observed Usher.
“We had to make use of the secret passage from Bringhurst in order to
enter the house, which we often did while you were absent at meals. Yet
even then you got the better of us when you closed us down in the tunnel
early one morning, and Purvis stumbling into the open well was nearly
drowned. Then, having found nothing at the Manor, Harding turned his
attention to searching at the Record Office to ascertain whether any
other documents were preserved there. He found one, but it was in
cipher, and utterly unintelligible. Therefore we kept a watchful eye on
you, and when you came down here I was dispatched to follow you and note
your movements.”
“But the murder at Kilburn—how was that accomplished, and for what
reason?”
“Listen, and I will tell you,” the man responded. His tongue once
loosened, he concealed nothing. His only object now seemed to save
himself by the sacrifice of his friends. He quite realized that the game
was up, and when, later, I gave him a few pearls from one of the chests
that he might sell them and escape from the country in view of the
coming revelations, he seemed to be perfectly satisfied. The fact that
he was an arrant scoundrel could not be disguised, for he did not remain
loyal to his friends in one single instance.
He paused for a few moments, as though hesitating to tell us the whole
truth, but at last, with sudden resolution, he said: “When I advertised
for information concerning the Wollertons I received several replies,
all of which I investigated, but found the claims faulty—all save one.
This latter came from a solicitor named Burrell, in Oundle,
Northamptonshire, who, in confidence, wrote telling me that he could
give information if paid for it.
“I therefore went to Oundle and had an interview with him. Twenty pounds
was the sum agreed upon, and when I had paid it he produced some old
papers which were in his dead father’s handwriting, and then told me a
curious story—which, later, I found borne out by the records in
question. What he related was briefly this: In the year 1870 Charles
Wollerton—who held documentary proof that he was the lineal descendant
of Clement Wollerton who commanded one of the ships of Sir Francis
Drake’s fleet—was living at Weybourne, near Sheringham, in Norfolk,
but, having been associated with two other men in a gigantic forgery of
Turkish bonds, was convicted and sent to penal servitude. He left a wife
and two children, a girl and a boy, the first aged two and the other
only nine months old.
“Mrs. Wollerton, always a weakly woman, died of a broken heart three
months after her husband’s conviction, but before her death she had
consulted Burrell, her lawyer at Oundle, regarding the bringing up of
her children, expressing a wish that they should never know their proper
name, fearing, of course, that the stigma as children of a convict
should rest upon them. Wollerton is not a common name, and the case had
excited great attention throughout the country. Therefore, on Mrs.
Wollerton’s decease the children, being left in the solicitor’s hands,
were put out to nurse, the girl being sent to a woman named Stanion, at
Deenethorpe, a village about twenty miles away, while the boy was sent
to Sutton Bridge, in the fen country. There was a very small estate left
from the wreck of Wollerton’s fortune, and out of this the people were
paid for keeping the children.”
“Why!” I cried, the name of Stanion recalling to my memory what old Ben
Knutton had told me. “Then Dorothy Drummond is actually Miss Wollerton!”
“That is so—and, furthermore, she is the youngest descendant of Clement
Wollerton, and therefore heiress to the treasure!”
“Well, I’m hanged!” gasped Philip Reilly bluntly. “But is this really
true, or are you only humbugging?”
“True, every word of it,” was the quick reply. “In the office of Mr.
George Burrell, of Oundle, you will find the documents which prove
everything I’ve said. Among them is Charles Wollerton’s genealogical
tree, properly attested, besides other family papers which will be
accepted as absolute proof.”
“But the boy?” I asked. “What of him?”
“Ah! About the boy there was an element of romance,” was Franklin’s
response. “It’s a curious story—very curious.”
CHAPTER XXXVI
“NINE POINTS OF THE LAW”
THE man Franklin paused again for a few moments then, in response to my
repeated question, said—
“To the boy Charles old Mr. Burrell gave the name of Wooton, the
present-day corruption of Wollerton, and he was brought up by a farmer’s
wife at Sutton Bridge for the first ten years of his life, being
afterwards sent to school at Hythe, in Kent. At the time I discovered
all these facts Dorothy Wollerton, who is, of course, unaware of her
real name, was twenty-two, and her brother Charles a year and three
months younger—a smart young man, who had entered the office of a
ship-broker in Leadenhall Street. Having obtained this information in
secret, together with the whereabouts of both of them, I gave it to my
companions, whereupon they at once set to work upon an ingenious plan.
“Miss Drummond—as she believed herself to be—was informed by letter
from me as a solicitor that in future she would be under the
guardianship of Mr. Charles Purvis, of St. Peter’s Square, Hammersmith,
a gentleman who had been appointed by the late Mr. Burrell before his
death, while at the same time Bennett got on friendly terms with Charles
Wooton. Thus, for the second time in their lives, brother and sister met
at Purvis’ house, and, being unaware of their relationship, fell in love
with each other.”
The man paused for a moment, regarding the astonishment upon the faces
of all of us. Then he went on, saying—
“It must be borne in mind that Charles Wooton, being the youngest, was
heir to the estate of Bartholomew da Schorno. He was a shrewd young
fellow, however, and appears very soon to have entertained suspicions of
Bennett and the others, while having made inquiries regarding Purvis, he
found him to be scarcely the sort of man who should be guardian to
Dorothy. He therefore refused to associate with us, and for some weeks
we saw nothing of him. Bennett and Purvis, however, prevailed upon
Dorothy to invite him one evening to the house at Kilburn, which, by the
way, Bennett had taken furnished. He went there on an invitation to
supper, and—well, you know the rest. He was stabbed to the heart by
Bennett, while I, not knowing what was intended, escorted Dorothy to the
house, where the others compelled her to touch the dead man’s face,
after which Bennett and Purvis pointed out to her that she had acted as
accessory of the crime.”
“The fiends!” I cried. “And the body—how was it disposed of?”
“It was taken in one of those zinc-lined air-tight travelling chests and
left in the cloak-room at Euston, where, I believe, it will still be
found. Of course, the assassination of Charles served two distinct
purposes, first to conceal certain ugly facts which he had learnt about
both Purvis and Bennett, and secondly his death made Dorothy heiress. It
was the idea of my three companions that if the treasure were discovered
Purvis should at once marry her under threats of exposure and thus
obtain the money, distributing a certain portion to each of us.”
“An amazingly ingenious conspiracy!” I said, utterly bewildered at the
strange story he had related. “Then to this moment Dorothy is unaware
that Charles was her brother?”
“After his death Bennett told her, but she is in entire ignorance that
her real name is Wollerton, or that she is heiress to the Italian
treasure.”
A silence fell between us, but it was broken by Franklin, who,
continuing, declared—
“All that I have told you is absolutely the truth. Knowing that you will
keep faith with me I have attempted to conceal nothing. Purvis is aware
that you are Dorothy’s lover, and he and his friends also know that you
carry in your pocket the decipher of the document in the Record Office.
Hence their conspiracy to kill you and obtain it. Be warned,” he urged.
“Do not keep any appointment with Dorothy, otherwise it may prove fatal
to you.”
“Bennett is, I suppose, unaware that I am the man he marooned ten years
ago?” remarked Usher.
“I believe so. He does not know your name,” was Franklin’s response.
Whereat my companion smiled grimly at thought of the revenge that was to
be ours ere many days.
* * * * *
Martin Franklin, although an unscrupulous man, nevertheless kept his
word. Probably it was because he feared lest we should give information
to the police, and he believed it best to be on the side of the victors
rather than the vanquished.
Before we had allowed him to go he gave us his solemn promise to hold no
communication with Bennett or the others, so that they would not know of
our success or of how we had been forewarned of the fresh conspiracy
against me.
Leaving Reilly and Usher to guard the treasure I walked with the
scoundrelly lawyer to the edge of the wood, where, with a show of
politeness that I knew was feigned, he bade me good-day and left, not,
however, before I had warned him in a few plain words of the consequence
of any betrayal of our secret. If what he had told us were actually
true, then we had now no fear of the seizure of the gold as
treasure-trove. The story, however, seemed to us so romantic as to be
hardly credible.
However, the removal of the chests and bags was our next consideration,
and with that object I walked into Tickencote village, and there
obtained a cart and drove on to Stamford. There I purchased a quantity
of rope and coarse packing-canvas, conveying them to the spot where my
two companions still sat on the oak stump smoking, awaiting me. Together
we worked on during the whole afternoon packing both chests and bags in
the canvas so that their antique nature should attract no attention.
Then, in accordance with an arrangement I had made in Stamford, a
railway trolley met us on the high road at four o’clock, and we
conducted its driver around the wood until we came to a drift by which
the woodmen were evidently in the habit of entering with their drags. At
first the man seemed rather surprised at the nature of his load, but a
crisp five-pound note in his palm effectually closed his mouth, and in
an hour we had the satisfaction of getting the whole mounted on the
trolley, Reilly riding to Stamford Railway Station beside the carter. We
had sealed the knots of the cords of each packet with black sealing-wax,
which I had bought with the packing materials, therefore at the station
we ordered a closed truck, saw them stowed inside for London, and, as we
declared the freight to be valuable, the key was handed to me.
CHAPTER XXXVII
CONTAINS THE CONCLUSION
THUS far the treasure was ours. That same night we all three returned to
London by the last train, the big black van containing the treasure
being coupled with us at the rear, while just before two o’clock next
morning I had the satisfaction of seeing the whole of it safely placed
in my sitting-room at Keppel Street, much to Mrs. Richardson’s
wonderment as to what the heavy sealed packages could contain.
Usher constituted himself guard of the treasure, and early next morning
I went to Cornwall Road and informed Dorothy of our success and of her
good fortune.
“It is true, Paul, that I was fond of Charles Wooton, not knowing that
he was my brother, and it is equally true that I induced him to accept
the invitation to supper at Kilburn which Bennett gave him. But I never
dreamed that those men intended to kill him until Martin made me enter
the room against my will, and I saw the poor fellow lying dead—stabbed
to the heart. But I see it all now! I see why Bennett and Purvis were
constantly declaring that I was morally responsible for his death. It
was because Purvis intended to compel me, by threats of exposing my
secret, to marry him.”
I quite agreed with her that she had been the victim of a most clever
and ingenious conspiracy, which had only failed because of our constant
perseverance in the pursuit of the treasure; and then, as I bent to kiss
my love upon the lips, I told her what was the absolute truth, namely,
that I had all along believed in her innocence.
“I love you, Dorothy,” I repeated. “I have loved you ever since that
night when by the intercession of Providence you saved my life.
Therefore, do not think that Franklin’s revelations influence me in the
least.”
“Ah, Paul, you are indeed generous!” she cried, springing up and
clinging to me. “I—I feared that you would think ill of me—that you
would believe I invited Charles there knowing that he was to be their
victim.”
“I am well aware that such was not a fact,” I said seriously, bending to
kiss her ready lips again. “You met him, but did not know he was your
brother—you knew nothing of the careful and ingenious plan of that man
Purvis who posed as your guardian, and who intended to marry you if
occasion demanded.”
“They killed my brother,” she remarked reflectively, as though speaking
to herself. “My poor brother, of whose very existence I was in
ignorance!”
“They constituted you heiress on purpose!” I said. “But we shall be even
with them before long, never fear. When did you see them last.”
“I saw Bennett a week ago,” was her reply. “I met him quite accidentally
in St. Paul’s Churchyard.”
I had previously related to her all that the rascally solicitor had told
me regarding the fresh plot against my life, and she now urged me to be
wary.
“I am only awaiting their appointment,” I said laughing. “It will be the
last they will make outside a gaol.”
“But do be careful, Paul,” she, urged, with all a woman’s solicitude for
the safety of her lover. I told her, however, to have no fear.
Two hours later she was at Chelsea assisting us to open the great chests
and examine their dazzling contents.
I had called at a famous dealer’s in Piccadilly, and in confidence
obtained the assistance of an expert, who now stood with us absolutely
bewildered at the magnificence of the jewels. Some of the gems, he
declared, were without equal—the finest he had ever seen.
But I may, I think, pass over that morning spent in examining our find.
Let it suffice to say that the expert went back to Piccadilly, declaring
that the collection was worth a very considerable sum, and hoping that
his firm might have the offer of purchasing a portion, if not the whole
of it.
At three o’clock, after Dorothy had lunched with Usher and myself in
Mrs. Richardson’s sitting-room, my own being filled to overflowing, the
servant handed me a telegram, which read—
“Miss Drummond has met with accident. Wishes to see you
immediately.—Clark, 76, Lavender Road, Battersea.”
It was the invitation into the fatal trap! I showed it to Dorothy and to
Usher, and while the former grew serious and apprehensive, the latter
laughed outright.
* * * * *
At four o’clock, accompanied by Usher, Reilly, and two police officers
in plain clothes from the Chelsea Station, I reached the corner of
Lavender Road and York Road, where I took leave of my companions and
went in search of No. 76. It was a small, eight-roomed house, one of a
long row of similar dwellings, and when I knocked and inquired for Mr.
Clark, the rough-looking lad who opened the door at once invited me
inside.
The moment, however, that I stepped within the small hall I found myself
seized by two men, who sprang from a room on the left; but almost before
I had time to realize my situation I heard a scuffle behind, and saw
that the detectives had entered behind me before the lad could close the
door. An instant later Reilly and Usher were also on the scene, while
Bennett and Harding, who had seized me, let go their hold and rushed to
the back of the premises. It was an exciting moment.
We had taken the ruffians completely by surprise, yet Bennett, with his
usual cunning, tried to make good his escape. While Harding ran out into
the back yard and was captured by Reilly and Usher in the act of
climbing the wall, Bennett with fierce determination rushed up to the
top of the house and out on the roof, followed by the police officers.
Over the roofs he ran for a long distance as nimbly as a cat, followed
closely by the detectives until they came to where two houses were
divided by a narrow lane a few feet wide. Then Bennett, finding himself
hard pressed and seeing the gulf before him, took a flying leap. His
feet touched the gutter on the opposite side, and for a moment we
thought he had escaped.
A second later, however, we heard a crack, and saw him clutch wildly at
air as the gutter gave way beneath his weight, and he fell backwards to
the ground, striking his skull heavily upon the paving.
The neighbourhood is thickly populated, and ere we could reach the spot
a great crowd had collected. Very soon, however, the truth was plain. I
examined him quickly, and found his neck broken. Death had been almost
instantaneous.
Hurriedly we returned to No. 76 amid great local commotion, and found
that although Purvis, who had been concealed in one of the upstair
rooms, had succeeded in escaping, my friends were holding Harding
prisoner. An inspection of the house showed that preparations had been
made to assassinate me—indeed, there was a large air-tight travelling
chest already prepared to receive my body! They evidently intended to
dispose of me in the same manner as Charles Wollerton.
Harding was taken to the police station, and search among the left
luggage at Euston resulted in the discovery of the trunk with its
gruesome contents, as Franklin had confessed. Purvis has, up to the
present, successfully eluded the police, but is believed to be abroad.
Harding was eventually tried at the Old Bailey for being implicated in
the murder and sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude, while the last
heard of Franklin was that he had been arrested a year ago in Glasgow
and sent to prison on a charge of forging cheques.
As for Black Bennett, the just hand of Heaven had fallen swiftly upon
him, rendering man’s justice unnecessary.
* * * * *
Every fact that Franklin had related we discovered to be true. The
proofs held by Mr. Burrell at Oundle proved most clearly that Dorothy
was the youngest descendant of old Clement Wollerton, hence none could
dispute her splendid inheritance.
A few days after that exciting chase in Battersea Reilly, Usher, and Mr.
Staffurth assisted me to go through the treasure and check it by the
long list written in the vellum book. We found, to our satisfaction,
that it was intact.
Within a month, with Dorothy’s authority, we had disposed of all of it
save a few of the most valuable ornaments, which she kept for her own
use. The firm in Piccadilly were the principal purchasers of the coins
and diamonds, but much of the remainder was sold by auction at
Christie’s and other sale-rooms and realized very high prices, while a
quantity of it has now found its way into the British Museum and other
similar institutions.
The chestful of gold coins bequeathed to me as finder realized a little
over £1,000, and out of this I paid for the dilapidations at Caldecott
Manor—which is, by the way, now reoccupied by a highly respected
gentleman and his wife—and made presents to my friends, Job Seal
included, augmented, of course, by Dorothy herself.
* * * * *
And the rest? Need I tell you? I think not. All I shall say further is
that within two months of our sudden fortune Dorothy, whom I had loved
long before I knew her to be heiress of the treasure, married me at
Hampstead, where we now live—in Fitzjohn’s Avenue, to be exact—leading
an idyllic life of peace and love. If you pass up the thoroughfare in
question you will probably notice the name, “Mr. Pickering, Surgeon,”
upon a brass plate, for although the sum realized by the sale of the
jewels has provided us with a comfortable income for life, yet I am not
by any means an idle man.
So careful have we been to preserve our secret that to those who know us
and may chance to read this narrative, the truth will come as an entire
surprise. Our love is perfect, for surely no couple could be happier
than we are. When at evening I sit at the fireside gazing at the sweet,
smiling face of my devoted wife, I often reflect upon those dark days of
anxiety and despair—the days of my love’s thraldom and of my own
desperate endeavour to solve the mystery. Before me there hang, in black
frames, the parchment with the seven signatures and the ancient diploma
with leaden seal which I discovered with it, and whenever I look up at
them my memory runs back to the potency of that simple number
three—that numeral scrawled in faded ink which revealed to us “THE
TICKENCOTE TREASURE.”
THE END.
WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD., LONDON.
Ward, Lock & Co.’s
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The last adventures of one of the breeziest and most
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JOURNEYS END.
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MONSIGNY: THE SOUL OF GOLD.
THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.—“The novel is admirable, the idea
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THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.—“‘Buchanan’s Wife’ may be regarded
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THE COURT OF THE ANGELS. 6s.
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THE HARVEST MOON.
THE STANDARD.—“Mr. Forman is an accomplished writer of
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and once again he holds us with his spell.”
THE OPENING DOOR.
One of the best stories Justus Miles Forman has written
since “The Garden of Lies.”
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
FALSE EVIDENCE.
WESTERN MAIL.—“One takes up a story by Mr. E. Phillips
Oppenheim with the certainty of enjoyment, and the
reader is never disappointed.”
THE POSTMASTER OF MARKET DEIGNTON.
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THE PEER AND THE WOMAN.
THE COVENTRY STANDARD.—“A thrilling story by that
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BERENICE.
THE YORKSHIRE OBSERVER.—“More sincere work than is to
be found in this novel Mr. Oppenheim has never written.
The subject shows the author in a new and unexpected
light.”
MR. MARX’S SECRET.
THE SCOTSMAN.—“‘Mr. Marx’s Secret’ has a wonderful
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JEANNE OF THE MARSHES.
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and delightful in the extreme; without a doubt It will
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THE LONG ARM.
THE WORLD.—“‘The Long Arm’ is a clever story, which no
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THE GOVERNORS.
THE GLOBE.—“‘The Governors’ is by Mr. E. P.
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THE MISSIONER.
THE HUDDERSFIELD EXAMINER.—“We have nothing but the
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CONSPIRATORS.
THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.—“The author must be congratulated
on having achieved a story which is full of liveliness.”
THE SECRET.
THE STANDARD.—“We have no hesitation in saying that
this is the finest and most absorbing story that Mr.
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curiously fertile in character and incident, and it
works its way onward to a most remarkable climax.”
A MAKER OF HISTORY.
THE STANDARD.—“Those who read ‘A Maker of History’ will
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story genuinely interesting and exciting.”
THE MASTER MUMMER.
THE DUNDEE ADVERTISER.—“It is a beautiful story that is
here set within a story.”
THE BETRAYAL.
THE DUNDEE ADVERTISER.—“Mr. Oppenheim’s skill has never
been displayed to better advantage than here. . . . He
has excelled himself, and to assert this is to declare
the novel superior to nine out of ten of its
contemporaries.”
ANNA, THE ADVENTURESS.
THE DAILY NEWS.—“Mr. Oppenheim keeps his readers on the
alert from cover to cover, and the story is a
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THE YELLOW CRAYON.
THE DAILY EXPRESS.—“Mr. Oppenheim has a vivid
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A PRINCE OF SINNERS.
VANITY FAIR.—“A vivid and powerful story. Mr. Oppenheim
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THE TRAITORS.
THE ATHENÆUM.—“Its interest begins on the first page
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and the characters are exceedingly vivacious.”
A LOST LEADER.
THE DAILY GRAPHIC.—“Mr Oppenheim almost treats us to a
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and are unrivalled in popularity.”
AS A MAN LIVES.
THE SKETCH.—“The interest of the book, always keen and
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A DAUGHTER OF THE MARIONIS.
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THE MYSTERY OF MR. BERNARD BROWN.
THE ABERDEEN DAILY JOURNAL.—“The story is rich in
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THE MAN AND HIS KINGDOM.
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THE WORLD’S GREAT SNARE.
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A MONK OF CRUTA.
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MYSTERIOUS MR. SABIN.
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A MILLIONAIRE OF YESTERDAY.
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THE SURVIVOR.
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THE GREAT AWAKENING.
THE YORKSHIRE POST.—“A weird and fascinating story,
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FOR THE QUEEN.
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THOSE OTHER DAYS.
Mr. Oppenheim ranges with assured mastery from grave to
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EXPIATION.
Mr. Oppenheim is one of the cleverest weavers of plots
who write the English language, and he has many examples
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FRED M. WHITE
THE OPEN DOOR.
An absorbing tale of unusual interest and mystery. Mr.
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known, and “The Open Door” will certainly uphold it.
THE FIVE KNOTS.
WESTERN DAILY PRESS.—“Mr. White has written several
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of readers, who will probably agree that it is the
best.”
THE LAW OF THE LAND.
DAILY TELEGRAPH.—“Mr. White’s new novel may be strongly
recommended. It contains enough surprises to whip the
interest at every turn.”
THE MYSTERY OF THE RAVENSPURS.
MODERN SOCIETY.—“As the plot is unfolded the reader
becomes more and more fascinated, the interest being
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THE SECRET OF THE SANDS.
THE SCOTSMAN.—“Mr. Fred M. White has written a story
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Italian Vendetta gives point to a good tale.”
THE GOLDEN ROSE.
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PAUL TRENT
THE FOUNDLING.
DAILY GRAPHIC.—“The character of Strand is an excellent
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THE SECOND CHANCE.
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as its title indicates, is of the same school.
LOUIS TRACY
SYLVIA’S CHAUFFEUR.
MORNING LEADER.—“‘Sylvia’s Chauffeur’ is as pleasant a
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RAINBOW ISLAND.
THE LITERARY WORLD.—“Those who delight in tales of
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THE ALBERT GATE AFFAIR.
THE BIRMINGHAM POST.—“Will worthily rank with ‘The
Fatal Legacy’ and ‘Rainbow Island,’ both books full of
wholesome excitement.”
THE PILLAR OF LIGHT.
THE EVENING STANDARD.—“So admirable, so living, so
breathlessly exciting a book. The magnificent realism of
the lighthouse and its perils are worthy of praise from
the most jaded reader.”
A SON OF THE IMMORTALS.
THE MORNING POST.—“Mr. Tracy’s new book ‘A Son of the
Immortals’ is of a highly sensational character, and
adventures and stirring situations follow closely upon
one another’s heels all through it.”
MIRABEL’S ISLAND.
A delightfully exciting and fascinating romance of love
and adventure, comparable to its author’s famous
success, “Rainbow Island.”
NO OTHER WAY.
FINANCIAL TIMES.—“Mr. Tracy’s latest novel provides an
absorbing narrative which is not likely to be cast aside
prematurely.”
HEADON HILL
THE COTTAGE IN THE CHINE.
Will make a strong appeal to lovers of sensational
fiction; every page has its incident or adventure, and
the most exacting reader will not find a dull moment
until the last page is turned.
MY LORD THE FELON.
THE BOOKSELLER.—“Every page of this book has its
incident or adventure, while the reader’s interest is
kept up to the last chapter.”
THE CRIMSON HONEYMOON.
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together.”
HAROLD BINDLOSS
THE TRUSTEE.
Another powerful and well-written story of hardihood,
love and adventure in Canada. The clean, fresh
atmosphere which pervades it is distinctly exhilarating.
PUNCH.—“Mr. Bindloss is an author who can deftly use
sensationalism to his purpose without forcing it for
mere effect, and who can also depict the character of a
strong man as honest as determined in love with a sweet
woman. He tells a story with rare skill.”
THE PIONEER.
THE BOOKMAN.—“Altogether a fresh, stimulating,
wholesome story, and one which should only be banned by
parents who do not wish their fledglings to succumb to
the fascinating lure of the wilds.”
ACADEMY.—“His novels are terse, powerful, yet graceful,
showing intimate knowledge and acute observation, never
overweighted with description, yet containing many
delightful pictures.”
THE PROTECTOR.
MORNING POST.—“Mr. Bindloss is always a sure find for a
good story, and in this one he has, if possible,
excelled himself.”
THE LIBERATIONIST.
MORNING LEADER.—“This is the author’s best novel, and
is one which no lover of healthy excitement ought to
miss.”
HAWTREY’S DEPUTY.
THE WESTERN DAILY MERCURY.—“The whole story is told
with the most spontaneous verve, and is tinged with a
delightful element of romance.”
THE IMPOSTOR.
THE QUEEN.—“Mr. Bindloss writes books which are always
good to read. His writing is uniformly good, and his
books are always sane, intensely interesting, and
dealing with subjects that cannot fail to concern a wide
public.”
THE WASTREL.
THE TIMES.—“Mr. Bindloss’s books are unchangeably true
to type; and in the distracting medley of modern fiction
they calm and regulate the mind.”
J. C. SNAITH
MISTRESS DOROTHY MARVIN.
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live, move, and have their being.”
LADY BARBARITY.
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humoured, so full of the influence of youth and beauty.”
GUY BOOTHBY
THE RACE OF LIFE.
THE ENGLISH REVIEW.—“Ahead even of Mr. Cutcliffe Hyne
and Conan Doyle, Mr. Boothby may be said to have topped
popularity’s pole.”
THE CRIME OF THE UNDER SEAS.
THE SPEAKER.—“Is quite the equal in art, observation,
and dramatic intensity to any of Mr. Guy Boothby’s
numerous other romances.”
A BID FOR FREEDOM.
THE SHEFFIELD TELEGRAPH.—“A fully written romance which
bristles with thrilling passages, exciting adventures,
and hairbreadth escapes.”
A TWO-FOLD INHERITANCE.
PUNCH.—“Just the very book that a hard-working man
should read for genuine relaxation.”
CONNIE BURT.
THE BIRMINGHAM GAZETTE.—“One of the best stories we
have seen of Mr. Boothby’s.”
THE KIDNAPPED PRESIDENT.
PUBLIC OPINION.—“Brighter, crisper, and more
entertaining than any of its predecessors from the same
pen.”
MY STRANGEST CASE.
THE YORKSHIRE POST.—“No work of Mr. Boothby’s seems to
us to have approached in skill his new story.”
FAREWELL, NIKOLA.
THE DUNDEE ADVERTISER.—“Guy Boothby’s famous creation
of Dr. Nikola has become familiar to every reader of
fiction.”
MY INDIAN QUEEN. 5s.
THE SUNDAY SPECIAL.—“A vivid story of adventure and
daring, bearing all the characteristics of careful
workmanship.”
LONG LIVE THE KING.
THE ABERDEEN FREE PRESS.—“It is marvellous that Mr.
Boothby’s novels should all be so uniformly good.”
A PRINCE OF SWINDLERS.
THE SCOTSMAN.—“Of absorbing interest. The exploits are
described in an enthralling vein.”
A MAKER OF NATIONS.
THE SPECTATOR.—“‘A Maker of Nations’ enables us to
understand Mr. Boothby’s vogue. It has no lack of
movement or incident.”
THE RED RAT’S DAUGHTER.
THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.—“Mr. Guy Boothby’s name on the
title-page of a novel carries with it the assurance of a
good story to follow.”
LOVE MADE MANIFEST.
THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.—“One of those tales of exciting
adventure in the confection of which Mr. Boothby is not
excelled by any novelist of the day.”
PHAROS THE EGYPTIAN.
THE SCOTSMAN.—“This powerful novel is weird and
soul-thrilling. There never was in this world so strange
and wonderful a love story.”
ACROSS THE WORLD FOR A WIFE.
THE BRITISH WEEKLY.—“This stirring tale ranks next to
‘Dr. Nikola’ in the list of Mr. Boothby’s novels.”
THE LUST OF HATE.
THE DAILY GRAPHIC.—“Whoever wants dramatic interest let
him read ‘The Lust of Hate.’”
THE FASCINATION OF THE KING.
THE BRISTOL MERCURY.—“Unquestionably the best work we
have yet seen from the pen of Mr. Guy Boothby.”
DR. NIKOLA.
THE SCOTSMAN.—“One hairbreadth escape succeeds another
with rapidity that scarce leaves the reader breathing
space.”
THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE DEVIL.
THE YORKSHIRE POST.—“A more exciting romance no man
could reasonably ask for.”
A BID FOR FORTUNE.
THE MANCHESTER COURIER.—“It is impossible to give any
idea of the verve with which the story is told. The most
original novel of the year.”
IN STRANGE COMPANY.
THE WORLD.—“A capital novel. It has the quality of life
and stir, and will carry the reader with curiosity
unabated to the end.”
THE MARRIAGE OF ESTHER.
THE MANCHESTER GUARDIAN.—“There is a vigour and a power
of illusion about it that raises it quite above the
level of the ordinary novel of adventure.”
BUSHIGRAMS.
THE MANCHESTER GUARDIAN.—“Intensely interesting. Forces
from us, by its powerful artistic realism, those choky
sensations which it should be the aim of the human
writer to elicit, whether in comedy or tragedy.”
SHEILAH McLEOD.
MR. W. L. ALDEN IN THE NEW YORK TIMES.—“Mr. Boothby can
crowd more adventure into a square foot of canvas than
any other novelist.”
DR. NIKOLA’S EXPERIMENT.
Illustrated by Sidney Cowell.
THE MAN OF THE CRAG.
ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT
IN THE NAME OF THE PEOPLE.
NORTH DEVON JOURNAL.—“A novel of absorbing interest.
The plot is developed very cleverly, and there is a
delightful love theme.”
IN THE CAUSE OF FREEDOM.
THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.—“A well-sustained and thrilling
narrative.”
THE LITTLE ANARCHIST.
THE SCOTSMAN.—“A romance brimful of incident and
arousing in the reader a healthy interest that carries
him along with never a pause.”
AN IMPERIAL MARRIAGE.
SCOTSMAN.—“The action never flags, the romantic element
is always paramount, so that the production is bound to
appeal successfully to all lovers of spirited fiction.”
BERTRAM MITFORD
SELMIN OF SELMINGFOLD.
FINANCIAL TIMES.—“A combination of sentiment and love
interest with the more practical and serious side of
life unite to make this novel of a singularly
interesting nature, and we are confident that it will
meet with great popularity.”
THE RIVER OF UNREST.
SCOTSMAN.—“Mr. Mitford brings forward with excellent
effect his knowledge of nature, customs and tradition.
The product is a tale rich in incident and character,
set against an effective background of savagery and
mystery.”
A DUAL RESURRECTION.
READING STANDARD.—“The novel reader who loves a really
good novel full of desperate adventure will never be
disappointed when Mr. Mitford’s books are in question.
This is a strong and clever piece of work, the plot is
ingenious and the characterization uncommonly well
done.”
SEAFORD’S SNAKE.
MADAME.—“If you like well-written stories of adventure
you should get Mr. Mitford’s latest novel. The
characters are well portrayed, the story written in a
brisk, virile style that proves very attractive.”
HEATH HOVER MYSTERY.
TIMES.—“A capital mystery and detective story, with
some exciting scenes in India.”
JOSEPH HOCKING
THE PRINCE OF THIS WORLD.
THE FINANCIAL TIMES.—“A strong knowledge of human
nature, for which Mr. Hocking is famous, is well
portrayed in the pages of this novel, and this, in
conjunction with the interesting nature of the plot,
renders it particularly successful. The book will be
appreciated by novel readers.”
ROGER TREWINION.
T. P.’S WEEKLY.—“It is a foregone conclusion that Mr.
Hocking will always have a good story to tell. ‘Roger
Trewinion’ can stand forth with the best, a strong love
interest, plenty of adventure, an atmosphere of
superstition, and Cornwall as the scene.”
THE COMING OF THE KING.
THE GLASGOW HERALD.—“Mr. Hocking’s imagination is
fertile, and his skill in the arrangement of incident
far above the average, and there is an air of reality in
all his writing which is peculiarly charming.”
ESAU.
THE OUTLOOK.—“Remarkable for the dramatic power with
which the scenes are drawn and the intense human
interest which Mr. Hocking has woven about his
characters. ‘Esau’ is sure to be one of the novels of
the season.”
GREATER LOVE.
THE NEWCASTLE CHRONICLE.—“Though of a totally different
character from ‘Lest We Forget,’ Mr. Hocking’s latest
story is entitled to take rank along with that fine
romance.”
LEST WE FORGET.
PUBLIC OPINION.—“His story is quite as good as any we
have read of the Stanley Weyman’s school, and presents
an excellent picture of the exciting times of Gardiner
and Bonner.”
AND SHALL TRELAWNEY DIE?
THE WEEKLY SUN.—“An engaging and fascinating romance.
The reader puts the story down with a sigh, and wishes
there were more of these breezy Cornish uplands, for Mr.
Joseph Hocking’s easy style of narrative does not soon
tire.”
JABEZ EASTERBROOK.
THE ROCK.—“Real strength is shown in the sketches, of
which that of Brother Bowman is most prominent. In its
way it is delightful.”
THE WEAPONS OF MYSTERY. 3s. 6d.
“Weapons of Mystery” is a singularly powerful story of
occult influences and of their exertion for evil
purposes.
ZILLAH: A ROMANCE.
THE SPECTATOR.—“The drawing of some of the characters
indicates the possession by Mr. Hocking of a
considerable gift of humour. The contents of his book
indicate that he takes a genuine interest in the deeper
problems of the day.”
THE MONK OF MAR-SABA.
THE STAR.—“Great power and thrilling interest. . . .
The scenery of the Holy Land has rarely been so vividly
described as in this charming book of Mr. Hocking’s.”
THE PURPLE ROBE.
THE QUEEN.—“It is exceedingly clever, and excites the
reader’s interest and brings out the powerful nature of
the clever young minister. This most engrossing book
challenges comparison with the brilliance of Lothair.”
THE SCARLET WOMAN.
THE METHODIST RECORDER.—“This is Mr. Hocking’s
strongest and best book. We advise every one to read it.
The plot is simple, compact and strenuous; the writing
powerful.”
ALL MEN ARE LIARS.
THE CHRISTIAN WORLD.—“This is a notable book.
Thoughtful people will be fascinated by its actuality,
its fearlessness, and the insight it gives into the
influence of modern thought and literature upon the
minds and morals of our most promising manhood.”
ISHMAEL PENGELLY: AN OUTCAST.
THE ATHENÆUM.—“The book is to be recommended for the
dramatic effectiveness of some of the scenes. The wild,
half-mad woman is always picturesque wherever she
appears, and the rare self-repression of her son is
admirably done.”
THE STORY OF ANDREW FAIRFAX.
THE MANCHESTER EXAMINER.—“Rustic scenes and characters
are drawn with free, broad touches, without Mr.
Buchanan’s artificiality, and, if we may venture to say
it, with more realism than Mr. Hardy’s country
pictures.”
THE BIRTHRIGHT.
THE SPECTATOR.—“‘The Birthright’ is, in its way, quite
as well constructed, as well written, and as full of
incident as any story that has come from the pen of Sir
Conan Doyle or Mr. Stanley Weyman.”
MISTRESS NANCY MOLESWORTH.
THE SCOTSMAN.—“‘Mistress Nancy Molesworth’ is as
charming a story of the kind as could be wished, and it
excels in literary workmanship as well as in imaginative
vigour and daring invention.”
FIELDS OF FAIR RENOWN.
THE DUNDEE ADVERTISER.—“Mr. Hocking has produced a work
which his readers of all classes will appreciate....
There are exhibited some of the most beautiful aspects
of disposition.”
GOD AND MAMMON.
THE LITERARY WORLD.—“The hero of Mr. Hocking’s latest
novel is a clever young country lawyer. The story is
vigorously told, his struggles, his success and his love
affairs are vividly described, while a strong religious
tone pervades the book.”
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Spelling and hyphenation have been left as in the original. A few
obvious typesetting errors have been corrected without note.
[The end of _The Tickencote Treasure_ by William Le Queue]
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