THE SPY, AND WHAT HE TOLD US
WITHOUT a second’s hesitation I drew the revolver I now habitually
carried, and, dashing out through the hole, scrambled up to the surface
after the intruder.
Scarcely had I gained my footing above when a shot was fired close to
me, and a bullet whizzed past my head. I looked angrily around, but
could see no one. The man had taken refuge behind one of the trees,
while I stood before him right in the open.
My companions, alarmed by my sudden rush and the report of the pistol,
were next instant beside me, and Usher’s quick eyes in a few seconds
distinguished a slight movement behind a bush a few yards away. He
rushed forward, regardless of consequences, and then I recognized in the
intruder the man Martin Franklin. Seeing that we were all armed he held
up his hands, and from that action we supposed that he was alone, and
that he had fired at me in order to effect his escape.
We quickly closed round him, indignantly demanding his object in spying
upon us, but he only laughed and responded insolently. He was a man of
about forty, dressed in rough grey tweeds and gaiters, in order, I
suppose, to pass as a countryman.
Philip Reilly was furious. He had sprung upon the fellow and with a
quick turn of the wrist had wrenched the weapon from his hand.
“I know you!” he shouted. “You are Martin Franklin, the man who was
present on the night of the murder at Kilburn! You’ll perhaps recollect
that incident—eh?”
The man’s face, in an instant, went pale as death.
“I—I don’t know what you mean, sir!” he answered, with a vain effort to
add indignation to his words.
“Well, perhaps you will when I’m called as witness against you and your
three companions Bennett, Purvis, and Harding,” he answered meaningly.
“Where are they now?”
“In London,” was the fellow’s unwilling response.
Suddenly a brilliant idea occurred to me, and in a loud, threatening
voice I said—
“Now, look here, Mr. Franklin. We may as well speak plainly to you, as
this is no time for beating about the bush. We know sufficient about you
and your scoundrelly companions to give you into the custody of the
first policeman we meet. Understand that.”
The fellow was a coward, we could see. Mention of the tragedy at Kilburn
had sapped his courage utterly, and he now stood before us white,
terror-stricken, glancing wildly around for means of escape. We were,
however, three to one, and he saw how he had fallen as into a trap.
“I fired the shot in order to alarm you,” he faltered, addressing me. “I
had no intention of harming you.”
“But you will recollect who took Miss Dorothy Drummond to that house at
Kilburn, and who forced her to touch the dead man’s face,” Reilly
interposed.
He made no response, for he saw that the secret of the murder was out.
A few minutes later, however, when he had had time for reflection, I
spoke my mind further, saying—
“Now, Mr. Franklin, tell us the truth. You and your friends meant to
possess yourselves of the chests we have just discovered, did you not?”
“We certainly did,” was his prompt response. Then, after a short pause,
he added: “I think, doctor, if you will reflect, you’ll see that even
you and I have certain interests in common.”
“How?” I inquired.
“It is to your interest to preserve the secret of your find, eh? I heard
you say so down there ten minutes ago.”
“Well, I suppose it is!”
“It is also of the highest importance to you to discover the heir of
Clement Wollerton?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, then, I think I can assist you in both,” he answered. “I am not a
murderer, as you believe, although I confess to having assisted the
others in their ingenious conspiracy. I know quite well that sooner or
later they must fall into the hands of the police; nevertheless, if you
will allow me freedom to escape and promise to take no steps against me,
I will, on my part, give you a pledge of secrecy regarding your
discovery of the treasure, and will also warn you of the plot against
your life.”
“Against my life!” I echoed. “What plot?”
“If you agree to my suggestion I will tell you,” answered the
black-bearded coward, who, brought to bay, was now ready to betray his
friends.
I turned to Usher and Reilly, both of whom were of opinion that, secrecy
being necessary, we should make the compact Franklin suggested.
Therefore the fellow took a solemn oath, and there in the dim light
beneath those big forest trees, a few yards from where the treasure lay
in its cunningly-constructed subterranean chamber, he related to us a
very strange story, which we afterwards discovered was the actual truth.
“I am a solicitor, as you perhaps know,” he began. “One day there came
to my office in the Minories a sailor named Henry Harding whom I had met
some three years before, and who was, I knew, a man of considerable
intelligence and education. He had just come home from a round voyage in
the Mediterranean, and showed me the translations of certain curious
documents which had been found on board a derelict. I recognized that
the treasure referred to might still exist, but that to undertake the
search we should require the assistance of at least two other
adventurous spirits like ourselves. Harding said he knew two men of just
the stamp we required, and a couple of days later brought to my office
Bennett and Purvis, the first-named a retired sea-captain and the second
a bookmaker. All three were eager to set to work at once, therefore
after a long consultation we decided upon a plan of action. Purvis was
sent down to Caldecott to make inquiries, and, finding a man named
Knutton still living there, purchased from him a parchment that had been
in his family for generations. Then, recognizing that if the treasure
were actually found it would be useless to us unless we knew the
rightful heir as stated in the old Italian noble’s will, I at once
advertised for information regarding the Wollertons. Within a fortnight
I received a reply from a small country solicitor, and we were very soon
in communication with the heir to the property, although, of course, we
preserved the secret among ourselves.”
“Do you know the identity of the heir at the present moment?” I cried
excitedly, for such information was of greatest importance to us, to
prevent the Government claiming our find as treasure-trove.
“Yes,” he answered, having grown calmer; “I will tell you everything in
due course. Well, having secured the document of the Knuttons, we found
it to be in cipher. Whereupon Harding recollected that in a vellum book
which you took from the _Seahorse_ was a cipher and key which he had not
had time to copy. We were closely watching you, one or other of us, and
knew all your movements; hence we were aware that the book in question
was in the hands of Mr. Staffurth, the palæographist. There seemed only
one way to get possession of the book—namely, to steal it; therefore we
employed a man known to Bennett, and the house at Clapham was
burglariously entered, but the book was found to be locked in a safe
which resisted all attempts upon it. One of the parchments—the one with
the seven signatures—was, however, stolen.”
“And found to be useless,” I remarked laughing.
“Yes,” he admitted. “But before long, after we had contrived to examine
your own rooms, we saw by your movements that you had become aware that
we were trying to forestall you, and that the fight for a fortune would
be a hard one. Knowing this, Bennett and Purvis conceived the idea of
entrapping you in a house which they took at Blackheath and—well, to
put it very plainly—doing away with you. For that purpose the girl
Dorothy Drummond was sent one night to the surgery at Walworth with a
message regarding the illness of a fictitious brother. She knew nothing
of the evil intentions of the men, but, as she afterwards confessed to
me, a sudden thought occurred to her while in the cab with you, and she
refused to allow you to accompany her back to the house.”
“Ah!” I ejaculated. “She has told me that already.”
“What?” cried the man in surprise. “Has she told you anything else?—I
mean the story of the affair at Kilburn?”
“She has told me nothing of that,” I answered. “I wish to hear it from
you according to your promise.”
“Ah, doctor,” he went on, apparently much relieved by my reassuring
words. “You had a narrow escape that night. She saved your life,
although the thought that foul play was intended only came to her
suddenly—one of those strange intuitions which sometimes come to us in
moments of greatest danger. Beware of those men, for there is yet
another plot against you. To-morrow, when you return to London, you will
receive a telegram purporting to come from Miss Drummond. Recollect that
if you keep the appointment it will mean death to you, just as it did to
the unfortunate young fellow at Kilburn.”
“Tell me all about that. What connexion had Dorothy Drummond with that
affair?”
“Let me relate the incidents to you in their proper sequence,” he urged.
“Our suspicion was identical with yours, namely, that the treasure was
secreted somewhere in the Manor House at Caldecott. You, however,
forestalled us in buying out the tenant and obtaining possession of the
house. We watched you living there day after day and working with Mr.
Reilly and Captain Seal, fearing always lest you should make the
discovery. If you had, then it was our intention to either raid the
house during your absence and carry away all we could, or, failing that,
to give information to the Treasury by which the Government would seize
the whole. You see you had no idea of the whereabouts of the heir, and
would, in that case, only be awarded a small sum for the discovery.”
“A nice revenge! It bears the mark of Black Bennett,” observed Usher.
“We had to make use of the secret passage from Bringhurst in order to
enter the house, which we often did while you were absent at meals. Yet
even then you got the better of us when you closed us down in the tunnel
early one morning, and Purvis stumbling into the open well was nearly
drowned. Then, having found nothing at the Manor, Harding turned his
attention to searching at the Record Office to ascertain whether any
other documents were preserved there. He found one, but it was in
cipher, and utterly unintelligible. Therefore we kept a watchful eye on
you, and when you came down here I was dispatched to follow you and note
your movements.”
“But the murder at Kilburn—how was that accomplished, and for what
reason?”
“Listen, and I will tell you,” the man responded. His tongue once
loosened, he concealed nothing. His only object now seemed to save
himself by the sacrifice of his friends. He quite realized that the game
was up, and when, later, I gave him a few pearls from one of the chests
that he might sell them and escape from the country in view of the
coming revelations, he seemed to be perfectly satisfied. The fact that
he was an arrant scoundrel could not be disguised, for he did not remain
loyal to his friends in one single instance.
He paused for a few moments, as though hesitating to tell us the whole
truth, but at last, with sudden resolution, he said: “When I advertised
for information concerning the Wollertons I received several replies,
all of which I investigated, but found the claims faulty—all save one.
This latter came from a solicitor named Burrell, in Oundle,
Northamptonshire, who, in confidence, wrote telling me that he could
give information if paid for it.
“I therefore went to Oundle and had an interview with him. Twenty pounds
was the sum agreed upon, and when I had paid it he produced some old
papers which were in his dead father’s handwriting, and then told me a
curious story—which, later, I found borne out by the records in
question. What he related was briefly this: In the year 1870 Charles
Wollerton—who held documentary proof that he was the lineal descendant
of Clement Wollerton who commanded one of the ships of Sir Francis
Drake’s fleet—was living at Weybourne, near Sheringham, in Norfolk,
but, having been associated with two other men in a gigantic forgery of
Turkish bonds, was convicted and sent to penal servitude. He left a wife
and two children, a girl and a boy, the first aged two and the other
only nine months old.
“Mrs. Wollerton, always a weakly woman, died of a broken heart three
months after her husband’s conviction, but before her death she had
consulted Burrell, her lawyer at Oundle, regarding the bringing up of
her children, expressing a wish that they should never know their proper
name, fearing, of course, that the stigma as children of a convict
should rest upon them. Wollerton is not a common name, and the case had
excited great attention throughout the country. Therefore, on Mrs.
Wollerton’s decease the children, being left in the solicitor’s hands,
were put out to nurse, the girl being sent to a woman named Stanion, at
Deenethorpe, a village about twenty miles away, while the boy was sent
to Sutton Bridge, in the fen country. There was a very small estate left
from the wreck of Wollerton’s fortune, and out of this the people were
paid for keeping the children.”
“Why!” I cried, the name of Stanion recalling to my memory what old Ben
Knutton had told me. “Then Dorothy Drummond is actually Miss Wollerton!”
“That is so—and, furthermore, she is the youngest descendant of Clement
Wollerton, and therefore heiress to the treasure!”
“Well, I’m hanged!” gasped Philip Reilly bluntly. “But is this really
true, or are you only humbugging?”
“True, every word of it,” was the quick reply. “In the office of Mr.
George Burrell, of Oundle, you will find the documents which prove
everything I’ve said. Among them is Charles Wollerton’s genealogical
tree, properly attested, besides other family papers which will be
accepted as absolute proof.”
“But the boy?” I asked. “What of him?”
“Ah! About the boy there was an element of romance,” was Franklin’s
response. “It’s a curious story—very curious.”