remembered. But before Patten left them, he said to Fanshawe: “Excuse
me, sir, but did I understand as you took out them glasses with you
to-day? I thought you did; and might I ask, did you make use of them at
all?”
“Yes. Only to look at something in a church.”
“Oh, indeed, you took ’em into the church, did you, sir?”
“Yes, I did; it was Lambsfield church. By the way, I left them strapped
on to my bicycle, I’m afraid, in the stable-yard.”
“No matter for that, sir. I can bring them in the first thing to-morrow
and perhaps you’ll be so good as to look at ’em then.”
Accordingly, before breakfast, after a tranquil and well-earned
sleep, Fanshawe took the glasses into the garden and directed them
to a distant hill. He lowered them instantly, and looked at top and
bottom, worked the screws, tried them again and yet again, shrugged his
shoulders and replaced them on the hall-table.
“Patten,” he said, “they’re absolutely useless. I can’t see a thing:
it’s as if someone had stuck a black wafer over the lens.”
“Spoilt my glasses, have you?” said the Squire. “Thank you: the only
ones I’ve got.”
“You try them yourself,” said Fanshawe, “I’ve done nothing to them.”
So after breakfast the Squire took them out to the terrace and stood
on the steps. After a few ineffectual attempts, “Lord, how heavy they
are!” he said impatiently, and in the same instant dropped them on to
the stones, and the lens splintered and the barrel cracked: a little
pool of liquid formed on the stone slab. It was inky black, and the
odour that rose from it is not to be described.
“Filled and sealed, eh?” said the Squire. “If I could bring myself to
touch it, I dare say we should find the seal. So that’s what came of
his boiling and distilling, is it? Old Ghoul!”
“What in the world do you mean?”
“Don’t you see, my good man? Remember what he said to the doctor about
looking through dead men’s eyes? Well, this was another way of it. But
they didn’t like having their bones boiled, I take it, and the end of
it was they carried him off whither he would not. Well, I’ll get a
spade, and we’ll bury this thing decently.”
As they smoothed the turf over it, the Squire, handing the spade to
Patten, who had been a reverential spectator, remarked to Fanshawe:
“It’s almost a pity you took that thing into the church: you might have
seen more than you did. Baxter only had them for a week, I make out,
but I don’t see that he did much in the time.”
“I’m not sure,” said Fanshawe, “there is that picture of Fulnaker
Priory Church.”
A WARNING TO THE CURIOUS
The place on the east coast which the reader is asked to consider is
Seaburgh. It is not very different now from what I remember it to have
been when I was a child. Marshes intersected by dykes to the south,
recalling the early chapters of _Great Expectations_; flat fields
to the north, merging into heath; heath, fir woods, and, above all,
gorse, inland. A long sea-front and a street: behind that a spacious
church of flint, with a broad, solid western tower and a peal of six
bells. How well I remember their sound on a hot Sunday in August, as
our party went slowly up the white, dusty slope of road towards them,
for the church stands at the top of a short, steep incline. They rang
with a flat clacking sort of sound on those hot days, but when the air
was softer they were mellower too. The railway ran down to its little
terminus farther along the same road. There was a gay white windmill
just before you came to the station, and another down near the shingle
at the south end of the town, and others on higher ground to the north.
There were cottages of bright red brick with slate roofs ... but why do
I encumber you with these commonplace details? The fact is that they
come crowding to the point of the pencil when it begins to write of
Seaburgh. I should like to be sure that I had allowed the right ones
to get on to the paper. But I forgot. I have not quite done with the
word-painting business yet.
Walk away from the sea and the town, pass the station, and turn up the
road on the right. It is a sandy road, parallel with the railway, and
if you follow it, it climbs to somewhat higher ground. On your left
(you are now going northward) is heath, on your right (the side towards
the sea) is a belt of old firs, wind-beaten, thick at the top, with
the slope that old seaside trees have; seen on the skyline from the
train they would tell you in an instant, if you did not know it, that
you were approaching a windy coast. Well, at the top of my little hill,
a line of these firs strikes out and runs towards the sea, for there is
a ridge that goes that way; and the ridge ends in a rather well-defined
mound commanding the level fields of rough grass, and a little knot of
fir trees crowns it. And here you may sit on a hot spring day, very
well content to look at blue sea, white windmills, red cottages, bright
green grass, church tower, and distant martello tower on the south.
As I have said, I began to know Seaburgh as a child; but a gap of a
good many years separates my early knowledge from that which is more
recent. Still it keeps its place in my affections, and any tales of it
that I pick up have an interest for me. One such tale is this: it came
to me in a place very remote from Seaburgh, and quite accidentally,
from a man whom I had been able to oblige--enough in his opinion to
justify his making me his confidant to this extent.
* * * * *
I know all that country more or less, (he said). I used to go to
Seaburgh pretty regularly for golf in the spring. I generally put
up at the “Bear,” with a friend--Henry Long it was, you knew him
perhaps--(“Slightly,” I said) and we used to take a sitting-room and
be very happy there. Since he died I haven’t cared to go there. And
I don’t know that I should anyhow after the particular thing that
happened on our last visit.
It was in April, 19--, we were there, and by some chance we were
almost the only people in the hotel. So the ordinary public rooms were
practically empty, and we were the more surprised when, after dinner,
our sitting-room door opened, and a young man put his head in. We were
aware of this young man. He was rather a rabbity anæmic subject--light
hair and light eyes--but not unpleasing. So when he said: “I beg your
pardon, is this a private room?” we did not growl and say: “Yes, it
is,” but Long said, or I did--no matter which: “Please come in.” “Oh,
may I?” he said, and seemed relieved. Of course it was obvious that he
wanted company; and as he was a reasonable kind of person--not the sort
to bestow his whole family history on you--we urged him to make himself
at home. “I dare say you find the other rooms rather bleak,” I said.
Yes, he did: but it was really too good of us, and so on. That being
got over, he made some pretence of reading a book. Long was playing
Patience, I was writing. It became plain to me after a few minutes that
this visitor of ours was in rather a state of fidgets or nerves, which
communicated itself to me, and so I put away my writing and turned to
at engaging him in talk.
After some remarks, which I forget, he became rather confidential.
“You’ll think it very odd of me,” (this was the sort of way he began),
“but the fact is I’ve had something of a shock.” Well, I recommended a
drink of some cheering kind, and we had it. The waiter coming in made
an interruption (and I thought our young man seemed very jumpy when
the door opened), but after a while he got back to his woes again.
There was nobody he knew in the place, and he did happen to know who we
both were (it turned out there was some common acquaintance in town),
and really he did want a word of advice, if we didn’t mind. Of course
we both said: “By all means,” or “Not at all,” and Long put away his
cards. And we settled down to hear what his difficulty was.
“It began,” he said, “more than a week ago, when I bicycled over to
Froston, only about five or six miles, to see the church--I’m very much
interested in architecture, and it’s got one of those pretty porches
with niches and shields. I took a photograph of it, and then an old man
who was tidying up in the churchyard came and asked if I’d care to look
into the church. I said yes, and he produced a key and let me in. There
wasn’t much inside, but I told him it was a nice little church, and he
kept it very clean, ‘but,’ I said, ‘the porch is the best part of it.’
We were just outside the porch then, and he said, ‘Ah, yes, that is a
nice porch; and do you know, sir, what’s the meanin’ of that coat of
arms there?’
“It was the one with the three crowns, and though I’m not much of a
herald, I was able to say yes, I thought it was the old arms of the
kingdom of East Anglia.
“‘That’s right, sir,’ he said, ‘and do you know the meanin’ of them
three crowns that’s on it?’
“I said I’d no doubt it was known, but I couldn’t recollect to have
heard it myself.
“‘Well, then,’ he said, ‘for all you’re a scholard, I can tell you
something you don’t know. Them’s the three ’oly crowns what was buried
in the ground near by the coast to keep the Germans from landing--ah,
I can see you don’t believe that. But I tell you, if it hadn’t have
been for one of them ’oly crowns bein’ there still, them Germans would
a landed here time and again, they would. Landed with their ships, and
killed man, woman and child in their beds. Now then, that’s the truth
what I’m telling you, that is; and if you don’t believe me, you ast
the rector. There he comes: you ast him, I says.’
“I looked round, and there was the rector, a nice-looking old man,
coming up the path; and before I could begin assuring my old man, who
was getting quite excited, that I didn’t disbelieve him, the rector
struck in, and said: ‘What’s all this about, John? Good-day to you,
sir. Have you been looking at our little church?’
“So then there was a little talk which allowed the old man to calm
down, and then the rector asked him again what was the matter.
“‘Oh,’ he said, ‘it warn’t nothink, only I was telling this gentleman
he’d ought to ast you about them ’oly crowns.’
“‘Ah, yes, to be sure,’ said the rector, ‘that’s a very curious matter,
isn’t it? But I don’t know whether the gentleman is interested in our
old stories, eh?’
“‘Oh, he’ll be interested fast enough,’ says the old man, ‘he’ll put
his confidence in what you tells him, sir; why, you known William Ager
yourself, father and son too.’
“Then I put in a word to say how much I should like to hear all about
it, and before many minutes I was walking up the village street with
the rector who had one or two words to say to parishioners, and then to
the rectory, where he took me into his study. He had made out, on the
way, that I really was capable of taking an intelligent interest in a
piece of folklore and not quite the ordinary tripper. So he was very
willing to talk, and it is rather surprising to me that the particular
legend he told me has not made its way into print before. His account
of it was this: ‘There has always been a belief in these parts in the
three holy crowns. The old people say they were buried in different
places near the coast to keep off the Danes or the French or the
Germans. And they say that one of the three was dug up a long time ago,
and another has disappeared by the encroaching of the sea, and one’s
still left doing its work, keeping off invaders. Well, now, if you
have read the ordinary guides and histories of this county, you will
remember perhaps that in 1687 a crown, which was said to be the crown
of Redwald, King of the East Angles, was dug up at Rendlesham, and
alas! alas! melted down before it was even properly described or drawn.
Well, Rendlesham isn’t on the coast, but it isn’t so very far inland,
and it’s on a very important line of access. And I believe that is the
crown which the people mean when they say that one has been dug up.
Then on the south you don’t want me to tell you where there was a Saxon
royal palace which is now under the sea, eh? Well, there was the second
crown, I take it. And between these two, they say, lies the third.’
“‘Do they say where it is?’ of course I asked.
“He said, ‘Yes, indeed, they do, but they don’t tell,’ and his manner
did not encourage me to put the obvious question. Instead of that I
waited a moment, and said: ‘What did the old man mean when he said you
knew William Ager, as if that had something to do with the crowns?’
“‘To be sure,’ he said, ‘now that’s another curious story. These
Agers--it’s a very old name in these parts, but I can’t find that they
were ever people of quality or big owners--these Agers say, or said,
that their branch of the family were the guardians of the last crown.
A certain old Nathaniel Ager was the first one I knew--I was born and
brought up quite near here--and he, I believe, camped out at the place
during the whole of the war of 1870. William, his son, did the same,
I know, during the South African War. And young William, _his_ son, who
has only died fairly recently, took lodgings at the cottage nearest the
spot, and I’ve no doubt hastened his end, for he was a consumptive, by
exposure and night watching. And he was the last of that branch. It was
a dreadful grief to him to think that he was the last, but he could do
nothing, the only relations at all near to him were in the colonies. I
wrote letters for him to them imploring them to come over on business
very important to the family, but there has been no answer. So the
last of the holy crowns, if it’s there, has no guardian now.’
“That was what the rector told me, and you can fancy how interesting I
found it. The only thing I could think of when I left him was how to
hit upon the spot where the crown was supposed to be. I wish I’d left
it alone.
“But there was a sort of fate in it, for as I bicycled back past the
churchyard wall my eye caught a fairly new gravestone, and on it was
the name of William Ager. Of course I got off and read it. It said ‘of
this parish, died at Seaburgh, 19--, aged 28.’ There it was, you see.
A little judicious questioning in the right place, and I should at
least find the cottage nearest the spot. Only I didn’t quite know what
was the right spot to begin my questioning at. Again there was fate:
it took me to the curiosity-shop down that way--you know--and I turned
over some old books, and, if you please, one was a prayer-book of 1740
odd, in a rather handsome binding--I’ll just go and get it, it’s in my
room.”
He left us in a state of some surprise, but we had hardly time to
exchange any remarks when he was back, panting, and handed us the book
opened at the fly-leaf, on which was, in a straggly hand:
“Nathaniel Ager is my name and England is my nation,
Seaburgh is my dwelling-place and Christ is my Salvation,
When I am dead and in my Grave, and all my bones are rotton,
I hope the Lord will think on me when I am quite forgotton.”
This poem was dated 1754, and there were many more entries of Agers,
Nathaniel, Frederick, William, and so on, ending with William, 19--.
“You see,” he said, “anybody would call it the greatest bit of luck.
_I_ did, but I don’t now. Of course I asked the shopman about William
Ager, and of course he happened to remember that he lodged in a cottage
in the North Field and died there. This was just chalking the road for
me. I knew which the cottage must be: there is only one sizable one
about there. The next thing was to scrape some sort of acquaintance
with the people, and I took a walk that way at once. A dog did the
business for me: he made at me so fiercely that they had to run out
and beat him off, and then naturally begged my pardon, and we got
into talk. I had only to bring up Ager’s name, and pretend I knew, or
thought I knew something of him, and then the woman said how sad it was
him dying so young, and she was sure it came of him spending the night
out of doors in the cold weather. Then I had to say: ‘Did he go out on
the sea at night?’ and she said: ‘Oh, no, it was on the hillock yonder
with the trees on it.’ And there I was.
“I know something about digging in these barrows: I’ve opened many
of them in the down country. But that was with owner’s leave, and in
broad daylight and with men to help. I had to prospect very carefully
here before I put a spade in: I couldn’t trench across the mound, and
with those old firs growing there I knew there would be awkward tree
roots. Still the soil was very light and sandy and easy, and there was
a rabbit hole or so that might be developed into a sort of tunnel. The
going out and coming back at odd hours to the hotel was going to be
the awkward part. When I made up my mind about the way to excavate I
told the people that I was called away for a night, and I spent it out
there. I made my tunnel: I won’t bore you with the details of how I
supported it and filled it in when I’d done, but the main thing is that
I got the crown.”
Naturally we both broke out into exclamations of surprise and interest.
I for one had long known about the finding of the crown at Rendlesham
and had often lamented its fate. No one has ever seen an Anglo-Saxon
crown--at least no one had. But our man gazed at us with a rueful eye.
“Yes,” he said, “and the worst of it is I don’t know how to put it
back.”
“Put it back?” we cried out. “Why, my dear sir, you’ve made one of
the most exciting finds ever heard of in this country. Of course it
ought to go to the Jewel House at the Tower. What’s your difficulty? If
you’re thinking about the owner of the land, and treasure-trove, and
all that, we can certainly help you through. Nobody’s going to make a
fuss about technicalities in a case of this kind.”
Probably more was said, but all he did was to put his face in his
hands, and mutter: “I don’t know how to put it back.”
At last Long said: “You’ll forgive me, I hope, if I seem impertinent,
but are you _quite_ sure you’ve got it?” I was wanting to ask much the
same question myself, for of course the story did seem a lunatic’s
dream when one thought over it. But I hadn’t quite dared to say what
might hurt the poor young man’s feelings. However he took it quite
calmly--really, with the calm of despair, you might say. He sat up and
said: “Oh yes, there’s no doubt of that: I have it here, in my room,
locked up in my bag. You can come and look at it if you like: I won’t
offer to bring it here.”
We were not likely to let the chance slip. We went with him; his
room was only a few doors off. The boots was just collecting shoes
in the passage: or so we thought: afterwards we were not sure. Our
visitor--his name was Paxton--was in a worse state of shivers than
before, and went hurriedly into the room, and beckoned us after him,
turned on the light, and shut the door carefully. Then he unlocked his
kit-bag, and produced a bundle of clean pocket-handkerchiefs in which
something was wrapped, laid it on the bed, and undid it. I can now
say I _have_ seen an actual Anglo-Saxon crown. It was of silver--as
the Rendlesham one is always said to have been--it was set with some
gems, mostly antique intaglios and cameos, and was of rather plain,
almost rough workmanship. In fact, it was like those you see on the
coins and in the manuscripts. I found no reason to think it was later
than the ninth century. I was intensely interested, of course, and I
wanted to turn it over in my hands, but Paxton prevented me. “Don’t
_you_ touch it,” he said, “I’ll do that.” And with a sigh that was,
I declare to you, dreadful to hear, he took it up and turned it about
so that we could see every part of it. “Seen enough?” he said at last,
and we nodded. He wrapped it up and locked it in his bag, and stood
looking at us dumbly. “Come back to our room,” Long said, “and tell us
what the trouble is.” He thanked us, and said: “Will you go first and
see if--if the coast is clear?” That wasn’t very intelligible, for our
proceedings hadn’t been, after all, very suspicious, and the hotel,
as I said, was practically empty. However, we were beginning to have
inklings of--we didn’t know what, and anyhow nerves are infectious. So
we did go, first peering out as we opened the door, and fancying (I
found we both had the fancy) that a shadow, or more than a shadow--but
it made no sound--passed from before us to one side as we came out
into the passage. “It’s all right,” we whispered to Paxton--whispering
seemed the proper tone--and we went, with him between us, back to our
sitting-room. I was preparing, when we got there, to be ecstatic about
the unique interest of what we had seen, but when I looked at Paxton I
saw that would be terribly out of place, and I left it to him to begin.
“What _is_ to be done?” was his opening. Long thought it right (as he
explained to me afterwards) to be obtuse, and said: “Why not find out
who the owner of the land is, and inform----” “Oh, no, no!” Paxton
broke in impatiently, “I beg your pardon: you’ve been very kind, but
don’t you see it’s _got_ to go back, and I daren’t be there at night,
and daytime’s impossible. Perhaps, though, you don’t see: well, then,
the truth is that I’ve never been alone since I touched it.” I was
beginning some fairly stupid comment, but Long caught my eye, and I
stopped. Long said: “I think I do see, perhaps: but wouldn’t it be--a
relief--to tell us a little more clearly what the situation is?”
Then it all came out: Paxton looked over his shoulder and beckoned
to us to come nearer to him, and began speaking in a low voice: we
listened most intently, of course, and compared notes afterwards, and
I wrote down our version, so I am confident I have what he told us
almost word for word. He said: “It began when I was first prospecting,
and put me off again and again. There was always somebody--a
man--standing by one of the firs. This was in daylight, you know. He
was never in front of me. I always saw him with the tail of my eye on
the left or the right, and he was never there when I looked straight
for him. I would lie down for quite a long time and take careful
observations, and make sure there was no one, and then when I got up
and began prospecting again, there he was. And he began to give me
hints, besides; for wherever I put that prayer-book--short of locking
it up, which I did at last--when I came back to my room it was always
out on my table open at the fly-leaf where the names are, and one
of my razors across it to keep it open. I’m sure he just can’t open
my bag, or something more would have happened. You see, he’s light
and weak, but all the same I daren’t face him. Well, then, when I
was making the tunnel, of course it was worse, and if I hadn’t been
so keen I should have dropped the whole thing and run. It was like
someone scraping at my back all the time: I thought for a long time it
was only soil dropping on me, but as I got nearer the--the crown, it
was unmistakable. And when I actually laid it bare and got my fingers
into the ring of it and pulled it out, there came a sort of cry behind
me--Oh, I can’t tell you how desolate it was! And horribly threatening
too. It spoilt all my pleasure in my find--cut it off that moment.
And if I hadn’t been the wretched fool I am, I should have put the
thing back and left it. But I didn’t. The rest of the time was just
awful. I had hours to get through before I could decently come back
to the hotel. First I spent time filling up my tunnel and covering my
tracks, and all the while he was there trying to thwart me. Sometimes,
you know, you see him, and sometimes you don’t, just as he pleases,
I think: he’s there, but he has some power over your eyes. Well, I
wasn’t off the spot very long before sunrise, and then I had to get
to the junction for Seaburgh, and take a train back. And though it
was daylight fairly soon, I don’t know if that made it much better.
There were always hedges, or gorse-bushes, or park fences along the
road--some sort of cover, I mean--and I was never easy for a second.
And then when I began to meet people going to work, they always looked
behind me very strangely: it might have been that they were surprised
at seeing anyone so early; but I didn’t think it was only that, and
I don’t now: they didn’t look exactly at _me_. And the porter at the
train was like that too. And the guard held open the door after I’d got
into the carriage--just as he would if there was somebody else coming,
you know. Oh, you may be very sure it isn’t my fancy,” he said with a
dull sort of laugh. Then he went on: “And even if I do get it put back,
he won’t forgive me: I can tell that. And I was so happy a fortnight
ago.” He dropped into a chair, and I believe he began to cry.