The Closed Book: Concerning the Secret of the Borgias

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

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

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

They approached until they had gained the point where we ourselves had left the road, then stopped. The vehicle bore no lights, but from where we lay concealed we heard men’s voices in greeting, as though his lordship and the hunchback had met them there by appointment, and then we heard the jingle of spades and the clatter of iron as some implements were apparently taken from the cart.

Without loss of time the party approached us; and a lantern being turned on by one of them, search was made for the piece of paper held down by the stone. This was quickly found, whereupon more lights were turned upon the spot, and then we saw that the treasure seekers numbered four; two of them were newcomers, apparently well equipped for the undertaking.

So close were we that we could overhear nearly all their conversation, for in that still night all sound travelled a great distance. But their words were few. Lord Glenelg assumed direction of the work, and before long the whole four, his lordship included, were busy with pick and spade, making a large square excavation. Their lamps showed an excellent light upon the work, and were additionally useful to us, for we lay back in the dark shadow, impossible of discovery.

Suddenly, as one of the men bent down to examine the ground, the light fell upon his big, clean-shaven countenance, Walter gripped my arm, whispering “See! That’s the fellow Selby! Can you see his face? He’s the man who probably holds the missing page of The Closed Book.”

I looked, and obtained a fairly good sight of his dark, sinister-looking visage – a hard, clean-shaven, furrowed face that had the miscreant stamped upon it. He seemed to be wearing a rough suit of dark serge, with a soft felt hat, which he had pushed to the back of his head. Seen under such auspices by the uncertain light of the lamp, he was not the kind of man one would care to associate with: loosely built, gross in manner, and deep of voice.

I watched him narrowly for a few moments, but he soon continued digging with the others, and when he stood upright his face was not within the zone of light. All worked with a will, knowing, of course, that the undertaking must be finished before the dawn, and from all four the perspiration soon poured, and their quick, deep breaths reached us even where we crouched, content within ourselves that their labour must be in vain.

Through nearly two hours they toiled on, removing the earth around a line of huge stones which appeared to be the foundations of one or other of the monastic buildings long since swept away. Time after time the abbey chimes sent out their solemn music far over the wide, misty fenlands; but with pick and spade and crowbar they slaved away in their efforts to recover the gold and jewels, the great treasure of what was one of the wealthiest abbeys in England.

The hole they had made was so deep that two of the conspirators were down working out of our sight. The other two were Selby and the hunchback.

Suddenly, above the sharp ring of the picks, we heard a heavy thud, and then another.

“Look?” broke from Selby excitedly. “At last! Here’s the first of the chests – bound with iron. Hark!”

And again he struck it heavily with his pick, while his companions were around him instantly, dropping on their knees and examining the find.

“That’s one of them, without a doubt!” cried Lord Glenelg, as excited as any of the others. “Come! Let’s get it out. How very fortunate that we fixed the exact spot!”

The hearts of all three of us sank within us. How unfortunate for us, after all, that Walter had moved their paper-mark from its original position!

Chapter Twenty Five

What the Buried Chest Contained

From our hiding-place in the bushes we all three watched intently, wondering what was the nature of their find.

That they had discovered something of interest seemed certain, but from our position we could not see its nature. The whole four were in the deep hole, working eagerly and digging around what was apparently a strong chest buried in the earth.

The moments seemed hours, until at last, with loud gasps, they drew the object to the surface, and their lamps revealed it to be an old chest about five feet long, narrow, and looking in that uncertain light very much like a coffin. But it was, we saw, strongly protected by great bands of iron bolted upon it, and locked by three ancient locks along one side.

“By Jove!” we heard Selby cry excitedly, “it’s heavy, isn’t it? Let’s get these locks off,” and, taking aim, he struck at one with his crowbar, using all his might. But the stout iron resisted all his efforts, although he repeated them from time to time.

Then the four turned their immediate attention to the locks, carefully examining them by the aid of their lamps.

“They’re still very strong,” we heard his lordship say. “The only way will be to file the hasps, and then force them.”

Thereupon two files were produced from the tool-bag, and Graniani and Selby set to work upon the hasps, while the other two stood by impatiently.

The work was more difficult than they anticipated; but at last the whole of the three fastenings were wrenched off, and, with a cry of expectation, Lord Glenelg raised the lid, and, holding his lantern above his head, peered within.

His companions, in their haste to investigate the contents of the chest, bent and delved with their hands; but their exclamations were those of bitter disappointment, for instead of gold chalices and silver cups, they withdrew only a quantity of damp and bulky leather-bound volumes, evidently ancient religious manuscripts which had formed part of the treasure of the old abbey at the time of its dissolution. Perhaps, indeed, they had been hidden for some reason long before those fateful days of Southwell’s visit, for the monk Godfrey did not mention them in his detailed list of secreted treasure.

The disappointment of the investigators was very great. Above the low chatter we could hear the old hunchback grumbling to himself in Italian, while Selby expressed his dissatisfaction pretty strongly in English, declaring that they were not in search of old books, but something of more intrinsic value.

“These are evidently a rare find,” remarked his lordship, opening several of the big musty volumes and glancing at them. “But the damp, unfortunately, seems to have spoilt most of the miniatures.”

“The finding of that box makes one thing plain,” Walter whispered to me. “The abbot would never have buried a box of manuscripts in water, therefore this discovery shows that the treasure itself does not lie concealed in the same spot. Let them go on, for they must fail. In a couple of hours it will be five o’clock, and the village people will be astir. They dare not work very much longer, and they certainly will not attempt to come here again.”

“But those books,” I said, with the envy of a keen collector; “are they to secure them? They may, perhaps, contain something of interest to us.”

“I think not,” my friend responded. “Let them take the lot. We are playing for bigger stakes.”

“Quite right, Captain Wyman,” added the rector. “They must not discover us at this point.”

After a cursory glance at the big volumes, some of them fastened with heavy bronze clasps, like The Closed Book itself, they ascertained that there was nothing else in the chest, and then three of them returned to their work of excavation, while his lordship commenced to carry the books, in small piles, across the field to the high road where the horse was tied up.

I confess that I would have liked to jump up and secure one of those fine old tomes. I was only restrained by my friends, who were determined, as a matter of policy, to let him cart them away, Mr Mason declaring that in due course he should claim their return, as an outrageous theft had been committed.

Lord Glenelg had made several journeys, backwards and forwards across the fields, when, just as he returned, a stir among the treasure seekers showed us that they had made another discovery, which, a few minutes later, we saw was a fine image of the Virgin, about four feet in height, dark and covered with the clay in which it had been embedded.

As it lay there upon the grass they placed their lanterns beside it, and with their pocket-knives scraped away the clay until it shone bright beneath.

“There was a celebrated image of Our Lady, in silver, here,” remarked Selby, as he scraped diligently. “Perhaps this is it.”

A few seconds later the thick-set man who was assisting, and who was a stranger to me, cried:

“It certainly isn’t silver. Look! It’s only one of those gilded wood things.”

And again there arose a chorus of dissatisfaction and disappointment.

The statue was evidently a very antique one; but so well had it been preserved in the clay that the gilt still flashed upon it where they had scraped away the dirt, and in the early grey of dawn that was now spreading we could just distinguish the bright silver stars upon the blue robes.

Again they all returned to their work with pick, spade, and “grubbers,” toiling on in the hole they had made, their heads only being visible above the surface, until the abbey bells chimed out, and then solemnly struck five o’clock.

Day had broken, and the warning notes of the bell caused his lordship to order a cessation of the labour. All four regarded the surface and looked with regret upon their rather fruitless efforts, well knowing that the damage they had done would, in an hour, be discovered, and that to continue their secret search of the spot would be entirely impossible.

“We can’t return; that’s very evident,” remarked Selby. “The village constable will be put on to watch, I expect. Therefore, we shall have to wait a month or so before we come back.”

“Couldn’t we perhaps square the constable?” the fourth man suggested.

“I doubt it. These country policemen are so much more straight than the men in town. As like as not, they’d split upon you, so as to get their promotion. You see, the work we’ve done tonight is a bit ugly, for a magistrate would probably call it stealing.”

“Rubbish!” snapped his lordship. “Don’t stay gossiping here. Let’s pack up and get away. There are a lot of labourers already on the move. Don’t you see the smoke from the cottage chimneys over there? We shall have someone across this footpath to the fields in a minute if we don’t get clear away.”

Scarcely, indeed, had he finished speaking when the dark figure of a man, with a fork over his shoulder, whistling to himself on his way to work, appeared at the stile at the opposite corner of the field, and took the footpath in their direction.

They noticed him, and, hastily snatching up their picks and spades and other tools, all four made off in the direction where the cart stood, and, ascending into it, drove rapidly off down the long highway across the fen, in the mists of which they were quickly lost to sight.

As soon as they had gone we emerged from the spot where we had remained cramped for so long, and rushed to the big hole they had made.

My first investigation was the old chest, and in it I discovered several manuscripts which his lordship, not having finished transferring them to the cart, had been compelled, in his haste, to leave. Of these we took possession, and the labourer, on passing, discovered the hole with considerable surprise, especially on recognising Mr Mason.

In reply to the man’s inquiry we told him that thieves had been trying to discover something hidden and had found some old books, for we wished the whole village to know of the secret attempt that had been made, in order that the people should keep a watchful eye upon the abbey precincts for further depredators.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Twenty Six

A Discovery in Harpur Street

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lord Glenelg has been here?” I exclaimed.

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

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

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

“Lord Glenelg was, I thought, abroad.”

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

“You received no explanation concerning them?”

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

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

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

“Have you actually found the missing Arnoldus?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perfectly,” was his reply. “I am quite as much interested in the Crowland treasure as you must be, therefore I will commence tomorrow to search for the particulars you desire, and will write you. Are you only in London temporarily, or have you returned permanently?”