WHAT BAINES KNEW
It was three weeks after my first interview with Crum that I found
myself travelling down to Liverpool to meet Baines, my uncle’s man, who
was bringing home his body. It was a dull, rainy, depressing day as I
stood upon the dock-side above the landing-stage, and watched the tender
come sidling up with the crowd of umbrellaed passengers upon her deck,
and my errand was not of a kind to elevate the spirits. Beyond the
mournful circumstances that had brought me there, I had a sense of
foreboding as if undefined evil was coming to me with the dead, though,
considering my very slender acquaintanceship with my uncle, it seemed
extremely unreasonable. But there it was all the same. I put it down to
the weather and the worry of the last three weeks. For really I had had
a very trying time. Gerry was more or less at the bottom of it, and Crum
and my own conscience helped largely. The fact was that in a moment of
weakness I had detailed to Gerry the story of the screed and the two
mysterious coins left by my old buccaneer ancestor. He had fastened upon
the thing like a dog chewing a meaty bone, and rested not day nor night
dinning into me his opinion that my bounden duty was to investigate the
affair “up to the hilt,” as he inappositely remarked. And in another
astoundingly weak phase of absent-mindedness I had taken him with me on
one of my visits to Crum. The two had managed somehow to get on the
subject of the mystery, and then had started in full cry together to
browbeat me for my lack of enthusiasm, proving—Gerry with terse
vulgarity and the lawyer with deliberate decorum—that I was throwing
away the chance of a lifetime, failing in my duty to myself, my honor,
and my nation, and showing forth a pusillanimity and poverty of
imagination which was a disgrace to the name of Dorinecourte. And out of
their badgerings a wild and hasty promise had grown—wrung from me by
pure bullying—that should any further news of the ancient scroll of
hieroglyphics come to hand, or perchance the scroll itself, I would not
fail to do my utmost to obtain translation for the same, even to the
extent of crossing the Atlantic myself and interviewing Professor
Lessaution. Pondering, therefore, this rash mortgaging of my future
happiness and freedom of movement, I stared down upon the snapping
little steamboat with melancholy eyes, reflecting that she possibly bore
to me a cargo of worry and unrest which would shadow my life with
unmerited discontent.
There was the usual fuss when the dripping passengers landed, the usual
rush for the customs, the grating of the rolling-luggage stage, the
interchange of impudence between the dock porters and the crowd, in fact
the everyday hurly-burly of a liner’s incoming, and it was not till
after an hour’s patient toil and the signing of various detestable
documents, that Baines and I were permitted to load our burden upon the
hearse that waited, and get it to the railway-station. I had no chance
in the crowded train of conversing with the man in any sort of privacy,
so arranged that he should call at my rooms that evening, and that there
he should tell me all there was to tell. Fortunately Crum had notified a
firm of undertakers to meet us at Euston, and there take charge of the
coffin, and finally I was at liberty to make my way home, change, and
eat with what appetite I could. Then lighting my pipe I set myself to
await Baines and his revelations with all the apathy I could command.
And then Gerry saw fit to drop in. He was brimful of inquiry and
investigation regarding the day’s doings, and showed unbounded
disappointment that as yet no further developments had ensued. He
hinted, in fact, that I was burking all further knowledge of the
subject, and sat arguing and discussing like an embodied British
Association. It was in vain that I tacitly agreed to all his premises,
and passed over his insults. He sat and sat, and there he was when
Baines arrived, and then I knew that the game was fairly up. Under
Gerry’s encouraging cross-examination I felt sure that the worthy valet
would have seen and heard marvels which no man could gainsay, and would
be guided into revelations of my uncle’s last words and messages which
might bear any sort of meaning that Gerry chose to apply to them. I
groaned as the smooth-faced, dapper little chap was ushered in by
Barker, and Gerry’s face of enthusiastic delight was a picture.
Baines stood in an uncertain sort of attitude near the door, fingering
his hat, and waiting, after the first good-evening had passed between
us, for me to speak. I motioned him to sit down, and as he deposited
himself gingerly on the edge of a chair I rose, and straddling across
the hearthrug, began my interrogation.
“Well, Baines,” said I, “it has been a sad time for you. Can you give us
any details of your master’s illness?”
“It was very short and sudden, my lord,” said Baines, with a terseness
for which I blessed him. “It came on at ’Uanac, where we were camped;
’is lordship went about much as usual for the first day; the second he
was very bad, and we sent on down to Greytown for a doctor, but by the
next day ’is lordship was delirious, and died the day after. The doctor
came too late. I nursed him all the time, my lord,” and Baines’s eyes
shone mistily for a moment in the candle-light, “and I think all was
done that could be done, but there was no help for it. They tell me
these malarial fevers always are like that, but ’is lordship was never
what I should call robust, my lord.”
“Do you think he knew that he was dying?” I queried, as he paused. “At
least, was he delirious all the time, or was there an interval of
consciousness?” I added hopefully.
“Oh yes, my lord. He was quite calm at the last, and knew he was going.
I think what vexed him most was that he hadn’t finished the business
he’d come for.”
“And what was that?” demanded Gerry and I as with a single voice.
Baines looked at Gerry a little uncertainly, shuffling his hat between
his hands, and glanced at me interrogatively before he made answer. I
understood what he meant, and hastened to put him at his ease.
“You can speak freely before Mr. Carver,” said I. “I have no secrets
from him.”
“Well, my lord,” said Baines, with a sort of apologetic hesitation, “I
cannot think that ’is lordship was altogether himself these last two or
three months. He had possessed himself of a piece of paper covered with
what you’d call ‘jommetry’—at least that’s what I believe it’s called,
my lord—when we were in Lisbon, and for hours together he would pore
over this when we were going out to Greytown, and mutter away to himself
in a really most extraordinary manner. Then when we got to Greytown he
wouldn’t stop there a day—and they say you should always take a day or
two to get acclimatized before you go up-country—but got mules together
and started at once for Chichitza——”
“Chichitza?” I exclaimed, remembering Crum’s story, “are you quite sure
that was the name?”
“I know it only too well, my lord, considering we spent nigh a month
there. A horrible place too. Uncanny, I called it.”
“Uncanny. Why?”
“Oh, it was all shut in with trees, my lord, and there was nothing but
great ruins all covered with figures and carving that looked diabolical
I thought, even in the day-time, and as for night—well, I never dared
stir from my tent. There was moans and rustlings going on in them all
the time. ’Is lordship used to say that it was only the monkeys and
sloths that lodged among them, but I didn’t care to go and find out. I
kept pretty close in camp after dark, I can tell you.”
“And what did my uncle do all the time?”
“His company and conversation was reserved pretty much all the time for
the French gentleman we found there,” said Baines, with an air of some
contempt. “He seemed to find a good deal to say to him, my lord. Then
when they weren’t examining and digging among the temples and things,
they used to press lumps of squashy stuff on the carvings, and pick them
off when they dried. Really, my lord, without meaning any offence, I
think I should have had to give notice if we’d stayed there much longer.
The dulness and the bad food, and one thing and another, was too much
for any ordinary Christian as wasn’t concerned in carvings and such
like.”
“When did they give up?”
“Just about six days before ’is lordship was taken ill. They’d packed up
and were going down-country to camp a little way—about two days’
journey, I think they said—outside Greytown. There they wanted to stay
another three weeks or month, I understood, to see something of the
natives. And what there was to see, I can’t say at all, my lord. A
dirtier, horrider set of ruffians I never come across, and I’ve been
with ’is late lordship in a good many countries before now.”
“What was the cause of the illness, d’you think?” I queried. “Bad food?
Bad water? Anything of that kind?”
“Just the pure reek and stink of the places, I consider,” said Baines
impressively. “There was a white mist that rose at night which fairly
got one in the chest, my lord. And up at the ruins it was worse than
anywhere. I only wonder I didn’t go down with it too. Only I was more
careful at night than ’is lordship.”
“Well, Baines, what did his lordship say when he was conscious? Did he
send any message to any one, or give any directions?”
“Yes, my lord,” replied Baines with a promptitude that made Gerry heave
in his chair with unrestrained excitement, “he sent your lordship a
message which perhaps you’ll understand, for I must confess I didn’t.”
It is not advisable to wear your emotions upon your sleeve before a
servant, and it was a stonily indifferent face I turned to Baines and an
unquivering voice in which I bade him deliver his word from the dead,
but I will own that discomfort and nervous expectancy had me by the
throat. Gerry’s face expressed nothing but unstinted and tremulous glee
and triumph.
“‘Go and see Captain Dorinecourte,’ he said, ‘when you get home, Baines.
Mr. Crum will have told him why I’m out here. Then say to him from me
that if he’s worthy of the name he bears’—I’m only repeating it as he
said it, my lord,” interposed Baines apologetically—“‘that he’ll
continue with Monsieur Lessaution what I’ve begun, and what’s nearly
done too,’ he added. He was getting weaker all the time, my lord, and I
don’t think I caught all he said, but there was a lot about the
alphabet, and the ruins at Chichitza, and that the French gentleman had
nearly got it all—all of _what_ I don’t know, my lord—and things of that
kind, when I think he must have been wandering, but just at the last he
sat up on his cot and spoke quite loud and clear. ‘After all these
generations, when I had it in my grasp, it’s gone to Jack. It’s the
cursedest luck in the world, Baines,’ he said, turning to me very
wild-like and passionate, ‘the cursedest luck, and if Jack throws away
his chance, I’ll—I’ll——’ and then a sort of cough or sob took him sudden
in the throat, and he fell back gasping. I held his head, my lord,” went
on Baines, his voice getting perceptibly unsteadier, “but it was no use.
He turned his eyes to me, and I’m sure he took me for some one else, for
he smiled so beautiful and glad that it made him look quite different
and like some other person. His lips moved again, but I couldn’t hear
any sound. He just breathed deep and quiet-like two or three times, and
then was still, and I’m sure he had no pain,” and as he concluded his
simple tragedy a large tear rolled over the brim of the faithful valet’s
eye and fell with quite a sparkle on the carpet.
The silence held complete possession of the room for a good minute after
Baines had finished speaking. I ruminated sadly over the confirmation
and support that would be given to the wild theories of Crum and Gerry
by this unfortunate testimony from the dead. Baines was lost in pathetic
reminiscence of the end of a master whom in his way he had loved, and to
whom he had given nigh a score of years of faithful service; while Gerry
a single glance showed to be indulging in fantastic dreams of triumph
which only a certain feeble sense of decency prevented him divulging to
us on the moment.
“What about Monsieur Lessaution, Baines?” I queried to break a silence
which was getting heavy with foreboding. “Did he stay in Greytown, as he
didn’t cross with you?”
Baines flushed suddenly and looked yet unhappier.
“No, my lord, he went back to Chichitza—at least so I understood.”
“Why?”
Baines stammered, and fumbled his hat diffidently before he answered,
striving evidently to use chosen words in describing a disagreeable
incident. At last he burst forth incontinent, forbearing
circumlocutions.
“He was very impudent to me, my lord—I can’t describe it in any other
way. He wanted to possess himself of one or two of his lordship’s
papers—particularly the one with the signs on it, that I’ve spoken
of—and was quite passionate to me about it. Of course I knew my duty,
and wouldn’t let him have it, and he used dreadful language to me in
French—at least I’m not a scholar, my lord, but it sounded almost
devilish. At the end he rounded on me. ‘Well, pig of pigs,’ he said,
‘take it to England then. It but remains for you to bring it back when
you get there. Tell the new Lord Heatherslie that I await him at
Chichitza till Christmas. After that I shall work on my own account,’
and that was all I got out of him after that, my lord.”
There was a gurgle of unrepressed delight from Gerry’s corner, followed
by a murmur of “No getting out of it, my boy.” I quelled him with a
glance, and proceeded with my interrogation.
“And that was the last word you had with him, Baines?”
“That was the last word he spoke to me, my lord,” answered Baines
guiltily.
I understood. “You should not have answered a gentleman back,” said I
severely. “What did _you_ say to _him_, Baines?”
He grew perceptibly hotter, but answered honestly.
“Well, my lord, I didn’t expect ever to see the gentleman again, and he
was very outrageous about the papers. I only said that you came of an
obliging family, my lord, and if he meant to wait all that time in
America, your lordship was just the man to do as much in England. He
didn’t make any answer, my lord, but just bit at his knuckles, and went
away dancing.”
Gerry walked to the window and looked gravely into the night. I assumed
a sphinxlike expression, answering with sedateness.
“It was an unpardonable reply, Baines,” said I sadly, “but it cannot be
helped now. I must write and apologize to M. Lessaution for it. I think
that will do for the present. Of course I shall continue to pay your
wages till affairs are settled, and shall probably want to see you again
more than once. Lodge as near as you can. My man will give you a glass
of wine,” and I rang the bell and delivered him into Barker’s hands, the
latter’s usual impassivity being marred by a bubbling excitement as he
received this travelled _confrère_, who might be expected to entertain
him with astounding histories of adventure by flood and field.
“A peculiarly pleasant gentleman, Mr. Baines,” said Gerry, turning
pink-complexioned from the window as the door closed. “So versatile and
gifted in the lighter arts of conversation and repartee. Now, old chap,
do you realize that you’ve got to go through with this thing? Not only
is it proved beyond a doubt that there is something to be looked into,
but it appears more than likely that the investigation thereof may
become amusing. What more could any reasonable person desire? We’re both
of us down in the mouth, and require relaxation and a tonic for diseased
minds. Here is an unexampled chance ready to our hands. Apply,
therefore, for leave; run over to Chichitza, and interview the good
Lessaution before he is tired of waiting. And I tell you what I’ll
do—I’ll come and look after you.”
“You overwhelm me with your consideration,” I sneered, “I can’t possibly
permit myself to trespass on your kindness.”
“Don’t trouble yourself to be sarcastic, old man,” said Gerry
composedly. “If you desire it, I’ll openly avow that I’m crazy to go and
forget all the brooding and whining of the last month, and therefore I
mean to make your life a burden till you consent. That’s all for
to-night; but to-morrow we’ll go and see Crum again, and hear what he
has to say. So goodnight, old man.”
I suffered myself to be led an unwilling captive to Crum’s office the
next day, and the old man heard our version of Baines’s story patiently.
And thus he made answer, speaking didactically.
“I must say,” said he, leaning forward and tapping the points of his
fingers ceaselessly together, “that what Baines has to tell us seems to
me to be most conclusive that your uncle, in conjunction with M.
Lessaution, has lighted on some further clue to this mysterious
document. Though apparently they have not solved it in its entirety,
they have satisfied themselves that it is Mayan in character, and has
some bearing on the adventure described by Sir John Dorinecourte. The
French gentleman evidently has accumulated knowledge which makes him the
only authority on this subject, and it is to him you must address
yourself if you would go further in the matter. I think, my lord, that
you would very possibly find it interesting so to do, but it rests with
you. It is regrettable that M. Lessaution is not returning to Europe at
once, and that he remains at Chichitza. It is also evident that he
has—or thinks he has—information which may make him independent of you
in this question, or, on the other hand, his threat of working without
you may be merely a piece of bluff to induce you to go and interview
him. In conclusion, I must say, that all things considered, it is the
only course I see open to you, my lord, if, as I say, you think the
matter of sufficient interest to be inquired into.”
“And of that there is no possible, probable doubt, no shadow of doubt
whatever,” interposed Gerry. “But don’t you think we should have a look
at the thing which has been at the bottom of all the excitement? It’s
among the boxes which have been deposited here, Mr. Crum.”
Crum smiled. “I have so far expected this visit, that I made bold—in my
character of executor—to open your late uncle’s dispatch-box, which was
deposited here last night. I have found the thing in question, and,
speaking for myself, am of the opinion that there can be no question but
that the coins and the document are in the same symbol,” and opening his
writing-table drawer he produced a tin case. Out of it he took a sheet
of yellow, rough-looking material wrapped in tissue paper. He spread it
out before us.
It was mouldering and musty, and emitted a faint, incense-like odour of
perfumed wax. It was covered, as Baines had described, with “geometry”
of sorts, namely squares, and oblongs twisted and welded together with
intricacy, but with apparent method. The long lines of them ran across
it in ordered rows from top to bottom, though which was the beginning,
it would have been hard to say, except that at the end appeared a
drawing—the presentment of as diabolical a looking monster as I have
ever seen. It was of the nature of a huge lizard, with a long, sinuous
neck doubled into terrifying contortions and flung back upon its thick
and lumpish body. The lines which radiated from its eye evidently
represented the baleful glare which was supposed to proceed from that
organ. But it was portrayed with a rough skill which was more or less
admirable.
“Well,” said I after a pause, when we had ceased to gape upon this
absurdity, “I think you are driving me into an escapade worthy of the
worst kind of lunatic, but as you are all against me I give in. We sail
for Chichitza, but while I say it, I am calling myself fool, fool, and
again fool, and there is no other word to characterize every one of us.”
And so amid Gerry’s shouts of acclamation was set on foot that
outrageous adventure which brought us to the Great South Wall.