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?"
"I'm staying with my friend Captain Wyman the traveller, at 14A Dover
Street. A letter directed there will find me."
"Has not the other portion of the entry here struck you as curious?" he
said, pointing again to the open page of the old monk's note book.
"This reference to `my lady Lucrezia's emeralds.' Can `Lucrezia'
actually be Lucrezia Borgia, and the emeralds those historic ones which
we know were in his possession about 1506?"
I affected ignorance. What could I do in the circumstance? I had asked
the professor's assistance regarding the Crowland ruins, but the other
matter I intended to keep entirely secret. In a few days I would go
north to visit Fred Fenwicke, in Galloway, and make investigations for
myself. Therefore I replied:
"I know nothing of the jewels. Yet it really seems probable that
Godfrey, if he had lived in Florence, might have known the notorious
Lucrezia Borgia of poison fame."
"And that warning about meeting death hand to hand--what can that mean?"
"Oh! the old fellow's way of trying to frighten the inquisitive, I
suppose," was my response. Then, when I had thanked him for his
promise, we took a turn down the long gallery where the English
manuscript charters are exhibited in glass cases to the public, and at
the door he bade me farewell, repeating his intention to assist me in
every way possible, and expressing a hope that, as reward, he might have
sight of the long-lost Arnoldus.
Until Professor Fairbairn could complete his search we could only wait,
the good rector taking care that no further theft was committed.
To search at Crowland before being in possession of a plan of the fabric
as it was originally, and the buildings surrounding it, appeared to be a
useless proceeding. Though Wyman and myself were both convinced of the
existence of the treasure there, we were not at all certain of our
measurements from the grand altar, nor of the exact position of the
filled-up fish ponds. Therefore, if we could obtain any plan showing
the position and extent of the cloister court, the monk's parlour, the
refectory, and the chapter house, all of which must have once existed,
the position of the fish ponds would certainly also be shown, and thus
assist us very materially.
Again, suppose that on the day and hour appointed for taking
measurements at the castle of Threave the sun was hidden by the clouds?
Should we be compelled to wait another year before our measurements
could be taken with sufficient accuracy?
This fear haunted me as I wandered through Bloomsbury towards Harpur
Street, a sudden desire having seized me to examine again the exterior
of that mysterious house. It struck me that a watch should be kept upon
that smooth-faced fellow Selby, by which means we might be enabled to
foil any attempt to filch the treasure from us.
As I halted at last at the corner of Theobald's Road and looked down the
short, sad street, I saw it was deserted; therefore I strolled along it
on the opposite side to the house in question, just as I had done on
that well-remembered night after my long chase across Europe.
As I lounged past, pretending to be utterly disinterested, I glanced up
at those two dingy first-floor windows. What met my gaze there held me
bewildered and speechless.