THE SEVEN DEAD MEN
HIS argument was quite logical. There was no doubt that the Italian had
at first intended to make a permanent record of the secret, but had
afterwards thought better of it. He was evidently no fool, as shown by
the testamentary disposition of the Spanish loot.
I took up the parchment, with its dangling seal, and noticed a dark
smear across it. The old expert told me that the stain was a smear of
blood.
“Then the secret is in the hands of some one named Knutton, and the
right owner of two-thirds of the concealed property is a Wollerton?”
“Exactly.”
“Is there any accurate description of the treasure?”
“Yes. It is contained in an appendix in Bartholomew’s handwriting; a
careful inventory of the numbers of ‘pieces of eight,’ the ornaments,
bars of gold, and other objects of value. One gold cup alone is set down
as weighing five hundred ounces.” And he turned over the leaves of
vellum and showed me the inventory written there in Italian, a long list
occupying nearly eighteen pages.
“The family of Knutton, knowing the secret, may have seized the treasure
long ago,” I remarked.
“No, I think not,” was his reply. “In the document it is distinctly
stated that a certain deed had been prepared and handed to Richard
Knutton in order that it should be given to his eldest son and then
descend in the family, and that so guarded was it in wording that it was
impossible for any one to learn the place of concealment. Therefore,
even if it still exists in the family of Knutton—which is an old
Kentish name, by the way, as well as the name Dafte on the document, it
would be impossible for the family to make any use of it.”
“Then where is the key plan of the place where the gold is hidden?” I
queried.
“Ah, that, my dear sir, is a question I cannot answer,” he replied,
shaking his head. “We may, however, hazard a surmise. We have gathered
from Bartholomew’s own writings that he lived at a place called
Caldecott, which would be about a hundred miles from Great Yarmouth, as
the crow flies. Now, my theory is that he most probably transported the
treasure by road to his own property as the most secure place for its
concealment.”
“Most likely,” I cried, eagerly accepting his idea. “He would be much
more prone to place it in his own house or bury it on his own lands than
on property belonging to some one else.”
“Exactly. That is the reason why I suggest that you should take a
journey to Caldecott and make inquiries if any of the names of the
present inhabitants coincide with any of the nine names mentioned in
this document.”
“Well,” I said, excitedly, “the affair is growing in interest. A
treasure hunt here in England is rather unusual in these days. I hope,
Mr. Staffurth, you can find time to accompany me for a couple of days
down there.”
“No,” he declared, “go down yourself and see whether you can discover
anything regarding persons bearing any of these names.”
Then taking a slip of paper he copied the seven signatures, together
with those of Richard Knutton and Bartholomew da Schorno himself,
afterwards handing it to me.
“The treasure may, of course, be concealed at Caldecott,” he said.
“Indeed, if it is still in existence and intact, it is, I conjecture,
hidden there. At any rate, if you make careful investigation, and at the
same time avoid attracting undue attention, we may discover something
that will give us a clue. The treasure, you must recollect, was placed
in hiding about three hundred years ago, and it may have been discovered
by some prying person during those three centuries.”
“Well,” I said, “it is quite evident that these documents themselves
have fallen into no other hands except our own.”
“True; but seven persons, in addition to this Richard Knutton, knew the
place where the loot was hidden. One or other of them may have broken
their oath.”
“They might all have been on board the _Seahorse_ when she was lost,” I
suggested. “From the rough manner in which the agreement was prepared it
seems as though it were written while at sea.”
“Exactly. It was certainly never prepared by a public notary. The men
evidently did not think fit to expose their secret to any outsider—they
were far too wary for that, knowing that the English Government would in
all probability lay claim to it.”
“So they will now, even if we discover it. It will be treasure-trove,
and belong to the Crown.”
“Not if it is claimed by its rightful owner—the youngest child of the
Wollertons.”
“You don’t believe that this book contains the secret of the
hiding-place after all?” I suggested.
“No. Unless my theory is correct that it was transferred from Yarmouth
to Caldecott. Why should he have sailed in the teeth of that great gale
from the Cornish coast right round to Yarmouth if he had not some object
in so doing?”
“Well,” I said, “it forms a curious story in any case.”
“Very curious. This old Italian seems to have been an adventurer as well
as a noble, judging from his own statements. The Turkish ships he seized
in the Mediterranean he sold and pocketed the money, and more than once
in the capture of the Corsair strongholds a big share of valuable loot
fell to him. So it was not altogether from motives of humanity that he
had become a Knight of St. Stephen, but rather from a love of profitable
adventure.”
I recollected how I had stood beside a skeleton that was undoubtedly
his, a man of unusual stature still wearing a portion of finely inlaid
Italian armour such as I had seen in museums.
“He must have been a wealthy man,” I remarked.
“Undoubtedly. And, furthermore, if we discover the spot where the
treasure is hidden, we may also discover the loot that he most probably
secured and brought to England for concealment.”
“Is anything stated regarding his family?”
“He had one son, but his wife died of the plague in Italy two years
after her marriage. The son he names as Robert, but no doubt he was not
on good terms with him, otherwise he would have left the secret to him,
and the treasure as an inheritance.”
I slowly turned over in my mind the whole of the strange circumstances.
It hardly seemed credible that Richard Knutton, the guardian of the
treasure, should die without revealing its whereabouts to any one,
especially as his family was to profit one-third on its distribution.
This I mentioned to Staffurth, but the latter pointed out that the
secret was probably transmitted in some unintelligible form, and would
therefore be useless without the key. Besides, the family of Knutton
were most probably in ignorance of what was contained in those
documents, considering that they had been always at sea for the past
three centuries.
Leaving old Mr. Staffurth to continue the deciphering of the Italian
manuscript, I returned to Chelsea.
The Mysterious Man was seated at the window, his sword against his
chair, covering sheet after sheet of paper with grotesque arabesques,
wherein the Evil One seemed to be constantly represented. He took no
notice of my return, therefore I awaited the coming of Dr. Gordon
Macfarlane, the great lunacy specialist of Hanwell Asylum, who shortly
arrived.
I introduced my patient, but the latter only grasped his sword and fixed
the specialist with a stony stare.
Macfarlane tried to humour him, and asked him a few questions. To the
latter, of course, he received no response. We both examined the quaint
drawings, and the more we looked into them the more marvellous seemed
the execution—the work of a madman, certainly, but such an intricate
design that few first-class artists could imitate.
Macfarlane was, I could see, much interested in the case, and was quite
an hour making his diagnosis. Presently, however, he took me aside into
the adjoining room and said:—
“A very remarkable case, Pickering. I have only met with one which at
all bore resemblance to it. Now, my own opinion is that the old fellow
is at certain brief moments quite sane—a sign that he will, in all
probability, recover. I should be inclined to think that his mental
aberration has not been of very long duration, six months perhaps. He
has certain fixed ideas, one of them being the habitual carrying of his
sword. He also, I noticed, is interested in any mechanical
contrivance—my watch, for instance, attracted his attention. That is a
symptom of a phase of insanity of which a cure is hopeful. And as
regards his dumbness, I believe that it is due to some sudden and
terrible fright combined, of course, with his unbalanced mind. Do you
notice his eyes? At times there is a look of unspeakable terror in them.
With a cure, or even partial cure, of his insanity, speech will, I
believe, return to him.”
This favourable opinion delighted me, and I thanked the great specialist
for his visit, whereupon he admitted his interest in the unusual case,
and said that if I would allow him he would take it under his charge in
his own private asylum down at Ealing.
So next day I conveyed the Mysterious Man to “High Elms,” as the place
was called, and, having left him in charge of the superintendent, packed
my bag, and set out on the first stage of my journey to discover the
whereabouts of the hidden loot.
I undertook it with a light heart, now that the responsibility of
keeping the Mysterious Man in safety had been lifted from my shoulders,
but so many were the mysteries which crowded one upon the other, and so
many the secrets which circumstances alone unravelled, that I think you,
my reader, will agree with me, when you know all, that the pains old
Bartholomew da Schorno took to conceal the whereabouts of his treasure
betrayed a cleverness which almost surpasses comprehension.
Well, I went to Caldecott about a month after landing in England, for a
family matter occupied me in the meantime, and if you will bear with me
I will tell you what I discovered there.