The long hollow in the field, with a small quantity of muddy water in
the bottom, was by no means the kind of place where one would expect to
find a treasure concealed. The fields around that neglected churchyard
were uneven, where the foundations of the monastic buildings were now
overgrown with rank grass and nettles, and in the centre was this hollow
where undoubtedly the pond had once been.
Facing us there ran across the eastern boundary of the field a line of
beeches, and then, beyond, the broad, bare, misty fenland, without a
tree almost as far as the eye could reach, flat, inhospitable, and
uninteresting. Like the Maremma, with which I was so familiar in
Tuscany, there lay over everything a light mist--that miasma which in
Italy is so deadly to the peasantry; and yet even more barren and more
cheerless was it than the wide marshes on the road to Rome. The old
windmill, with broken sails and roofless outbuildings, stood forth, the
most prominent object in that flat, unbroken landscape, without
hedgerow, a pitiful relic of the days when it paid to grind corn, before
the advent of steam machinery; while clustered on the north side of the
abbey were rows of old-fashioned cottages, mostly built of the stones of
the monks' houses thrown down by Cromwell. The quiet old village of
Crowland is still far from the railway, and modern progress has
therefore been slow in reaching it.
As I stood beside that weedy hollow with my companion, I was bound to
admit that although old Godfrey Lovel might have inhabited the monastery
for eighteen years or so, and his chronicle might be proved to be
correct on comparison with contemporary history, yet his statement
regarding the distance of the fish pond from the grand altar was
incorrect.
Walter pointed out that we had measured from a spot where we merely
surmised the altar to have been, and therefore we might have mistaken
the distance. Nevertheless, we gazed about us in uncertainty. We alone
knew the existence of treasure there, being in possession of a secret
lost to the world ever since the year of grace 1538.
Was not that in itself sufficient incentive to cause us to make a
search?
"This is evidently where Godfrey Lovel hid the Borgia jewels," remarked
Walter Wyman, referring to my transcript of the secret record which he
held in his hand. "But he apparently dragged the casket out of the pond
on the night before his departure for Scotland."
"Leaving the abbey treasure still hidden," I added.
"Certainly," he said. Then rapidly referring to my transcript, he
added: "As far as I can make out, the silver altar and the three chests
full of treasure hidden from Cromwell's men were not placed in the same
lake as the Borgia jewels. Old Godfrey was clever enough not to suggest
that, fearing that the casket he himself had secreted might be
discovered by some prying person. You see he says that the abbey plate
and jewels were buried `at the opposite end to where, through many
years, my own treasure lay well concealed.' Again he says: `Once I
heard rumour that Southwell intended to pump out the lakes.' He speaks
in the plural, thus showing that there was more than one fish pond at
this place. Of course, they've since been filled in, and this ground
made comparatively level over the old foundations."
I glanced at the passages he referred to, and saw that his surmise was
correct. There was certainly more than one pond there in Godfrey's day,
and although the Borgia jewels were hidden in the water one hundred and
thirty-one paces southeast of the grand altar, yet it did not actually
allege that the abbey plate was submerged in the same lake, but at the
opposite end. That would be south-west of the grand altar.
I pointed this out to my friend, and, both turning at the same moment,
we saw the glint of sunshine upon water at the opposite corner of the
rough and broken ground, level with the clock tower, and abutting upon
the road which skirted the village itself.
Together we eagerly approached it, first, however, returning to the spot
where we had fixed the whereabouts of the main altar, and counting the
paces towards it. I counted them as one hundred and twenty-nine, while
Walter made them one hundred and thirty-two.
The pond was big, full of dark water, and weedless, showing it to be of
considerable depth. It had escaped our notice on entering the abbey
grounds, and we both saw that although it was now bounded on one side by
the high, black-tarred fence of a cottage garden, and at the end by some
red-brick farm outbuildings and hayricks, it had nevertheless once been
of considerable dimensions--unquestionably the fish pond of the monks
from which they caught their Friday fare.
Once it had undoubtedly been well kept and cared for, but today the
cattle grazing on that weedy ground drank from it, for round the mud
showed prints of hoofs.
"This is it, no doubt," exclaimed Wyman, again referring to the record.
"You see it says `the pond was deep and dried not in summer, being fed
by several springs.' This one is of fresh water, while the other is
stagnant. If the treasure has not already been found, it is most likely
sunk deep in the mud here."
We both gazed upon the unruffled surface of the water glittering beneath
the sun, wondering in which part had been the centre of the original
pond. At present it was not more than twenty feet across and perhaps
fifty feet long. Its previous dimensions had, of course, been much
greater, for it must have extended nearly the whole length of the abbey
if, as seemed so probable, the depression on the east side of the field
had been in connection with it.
Of course, we had at once seen that the abbey and monastic buildings had
originally spread over all the fields southward, eastward, and
northward; but we had here sufficient evidence of the existence of the
ponds, the hiding place of the treasure.
A flock of rooks were lazily circling around the tower, and as we stood
there in silence at the edge of the pond the deep-toned abbey bell rang
out the hour.
"I cannot see how we can search here without its being known," Wyman
remarked at last. "How are we to pump out this pond and dig out the mud
secretly? Why, the whole village would be here in half an hour if we
attempted it."
"I am quite of your opinion," I answered. "And I would point out
further that until we are aware of where the _centre_ of the pond was it
is no use searching at all. My idea is that the spot where the treasure
lies is not beneath the water at all, but in another place, midway
between here and the other pond--a place that has since been filled up
with the debris when the abbey was destroyed. As you see, the ground
has practically been levelled, yet at one time nearly the whole of this
field was a deep pond. Recollect that there were sometimes as many as
seven hundred monks here; therefore they required good-sized fish ponds.
No; I feel confident that if we ever do discover the treasure we shall
find it somewhere about the centre of this field."
"Which means that we've a lot of excavation to do, and that we must
disclose our secret to the whole countryside--even if we were successful
in obtaining permission from the lord of the manor, the Ecclesiastical
Commissioners, or whoever owns the land."
"It means all that," I said, "and more. It means that if we do go to
work without knowing the exact spot where old Godfrey and the abbot
concealed the silver altar and the three chestsful of plate we might
continue our investigations until doomsday and achieve nothing except
the inevitable reputation of having made arrant fools of ourselves."
"But how can we know the exact spot?" inquired Wyman, who was nothing if
not entirely practical.
"By this plan most probably. The other plan undoubtedly refers to
Threave Castle, in Scotland; therefore, what more likely than this
should record the exact spot where the chests were submerged," and I
glanced at the tracing of the roughly drawn diagram with its crooked
lines and puzzling numerals. "If we could only discover the key!" I
added wistfully.
"I think it would be wise, seeing that we can carry our investigations
here no farther at this point, to ascertain who is the proprietor of
this land and other facts for our future guidance. I notice that the
writer of this guide is the rector, the Reverend Henry Mason. Why not
call on him and make some antiquarian inquiries?"
To this I at once consented, and a quarter of an hour later we were
seated in the rector's cozy study under the shadow of the abbey walls.
He was a short, elderly, spectacled gentleman of very affable manner,
and full of information upon the subject which interested us.
Finding us interested in the history of the abbey, he produced from his
bookshelves several rare volumes, including Felix's "Life of St
Guthlac," Histories of Crowland by Gough, Nicholls, and Canon Moore, and
a volume of Cole's collection of manuscripts which contained many
notable extracts from the abbey registers. These interested me most of
all; and while Wyman chatted with the rector I scanned through the
pages, finding references to the silver altar and the golden cups and
chalices of which we were now in search.
My friend made some casual inquiries regarding the field which we had
just been over, whereupon the rector said:
"The old fish ponds were originally there, but have since been filled in
with rubbish and fallen stones. Traces of the ponds, however, still
remain. You may, perhaps, have noticed them. In that field, too, at
the beginning of the century, a fine silver cup was dug up by a workman
while getting out some of the old stones with which to build a cottage.
It was claimed by the lord of the manor, and is now in the possession of
the Marquis of Exeter at Burghley."
"There may be some more," I suggested, laughing.
"More than likely," replied the clergyman. "According to a popular
legend, a great treasure is buried somewhere hereabouts, but no one has
yet been able to find it."
"Have they tried?" I asked.
"Oh, of course, the place must have been searched and dug over many
times without success," was his response. "Not, of course, of late. I
have known Crowland for the past sixty years, and no search has been
made in my time."
"Whose permission would have to be obtained if operations were commenced
on a serious scale?" I inquired, as though suddenly interested in this
popular legend.
"My own," was his response. "The paddocks outside the churchyard wall
are my private property. The last time search was made appears to have
been in 1721, for in the register there is an entry of nine shillings
having been paid to four men for digging in search of the supposed
treasure. A note is added that nothing was discovered of any great
value."
"Well," I said, "the legend is certainly interesting, and I, for one,
would like to make investigations some day, if you would allow me."
"You are quite welcome, providing you replace all that you excavate," he
answered. "Of course, it will require time, money, and a good deal of
patience. Besides, it will not do for the villagers to know your
object, otherwise you'll have a constant crowd of onlookers. When would
you suggest making a start?"
"Ah! I must consult with my friend, Captain Wyman, here," I said. "At
present I have a good many engagements. A little later--perhaps. But,
of course, this is in strictest confidence."
"Very well, Mr Kennedy," he said. "If you really intend to investigate
in earnest, I shall be most happy to render you assistance."
We remained with him a short time longer, and then walked back to the
George Hotel, a small, old-fashioned place, where our driver had put up
the horse, and took luncheon together in a cozy old-fashioned room
overlooking East Street, the narrow thoroughfare roadway leading from
the curious triangular bridge to the abbey.
This hotel was, we found, one of the very few in England which had not
been spoiled by modern progress. The dishes were excellent country
fare; but the one fact that impressed itself upon us was that the plate
on the table was all early Georgian silver.
As far as we had gone everything had turned out well. The local legend
appeared to bear out what was written in The Closed Book, and the fact
that we had made a friend of Mr Mason, the rector, was also highly
gratifying.
We had been consuming cigarettes with our glasses of old port--served in
the old-fashioned style on the bare polished table--and I had risen to
glance out through the wire blind into the sunny street prior to going
forth into the ruins again, when of a sudden I heard the voice of
someone approaching, and next instant two persons passed the window, and
were lost to view almost before I was aware of their presence.
But in that moment, as they passed, I recognised in one--tall, thin, and
grey-haired--the Earl of Glenelg, and in his companion--short, ugly, and
hobbling--none other than Francesco Graniani, the hunchback of Leghorn,
the man whose strange connection with The Closed Book was such a
profound mystery.
"Look?" I cried to my companion. "Lord Glenelg has passed with the old
hunchback antique dealer who first told me of the existence of the Book.
Why are they here--why has Graniani travelled all the way from Italy if
not to seek the abbey treasure?"
"If you're not mistaken, Allan," answered my friend, jumping up and
joining me at the window, "then you may be certain that the missing page
in the book contains directions for the recovery, not only of the casket
up in Scotland, but of the hidden gold here. They have no idea we are
here, that's evident. But that they know more than we do is equally
clear."
"But why is Graniani over here?" I queried.
"He's been brought over, no doubt, because he possesses some key to the
hiding place. The whole affair seems to grow more and more
bewildering."