A STORY OF THE PAST
The ancient village of Belstone, hidden in a fold of low-lying,
undulating hills, is inhabited chiefly by agricultural laborers. One
irregular street, four or five narrow lanes, and a few behind-the-time
shops, together with many small cottages, constitute this sequestered
hamlet. There are a great number of farms and several country seats in
the district, but those who own them usually buy the necessaries of
life at Lewes, so Belstone cannot depend upon trade for its support.
The villagers, however, do not mind this neglect, as they are
sleepy-headed and indifferent to all, so long as they earn sufficient
for bed and board. The sole houses of any note are the vicarage at one
end of the village, and the great mansion of the Inderwicks at the
other. Formerly the owners of The Monastery—as the place is called—were
Lords of the Manor, but, as their property has dwindled to a few acres,
the title has passed to a modern and more prosperous family. The
Inderwicks, formerly so rich and powerful, are now of small account
amongst the gentry of the county.
The Rev. John Fuller always maintained that the prehistoric name of the
village was Baalstone, and that it was so termed after an altar or
stone to Baal or Bel, a deity whom the Ph[oe]nicians had introduced
into Britain. But it is more than questionable whether these sea-rovers
ever traded so far as Sussex, and Mr. Fuller’s assumption can be taken
for what it is worth, although he held stoutly to his opinion. But be
this as it may undoubtedly there was a Druidical temple where the big
house now stands, later a shrine to Diana, and afterwards an altar to
Woden, until early Christian missionaries built on the same spot a
primitive flint and mortar church. Finally came a Benedictine
monastery, which lasted until the reign of that arch-iconoclast, Henry
VIII. From the expelled monks it had passed into the possession of
Nicholas Inderwick, one of Cromwell’s favorite gentlemen, and had been
owned by his descendants ever since. The spot had therefore always been
a holy one, until secularised in the days of the great Tudor monarch,
and perhaps for this reason had never brought good fortune to the
Inderwicks, who had built up what prosperity they had attained to on
the ruin of sacred things and the misfortunes of sacred people.
Certainly evil luck had followed them for generations: they had lost
land, money, position and authority, and their family tree had been cut
down root and branch, until only one feeble twig sprouted from the
mouldering trunk. Marie Inderwick was the last descendant of the
ancient line, and dwelt in the house of her ancestors on a penurious
income which barely sufficed to keep her in food and fire and clothes.
And when she married, or died, it was to be expected that the family
name would vanish from the land.
All these things Alan knew very well, as all his life they had been
talked about in the village and at the vicarage. There was also a
prophecy of an expelled monk dating over three hundred years ago, which
promised renewed prosperity to the Inderwicks when their fortunes were
lowest. The young man could not think how much lower the fortunes could
sink, and wondered as he strolled towards the monastery, if now was the
appointed time for the fulfilment of the ancient saying:—
“When most is lost and most are dead,
The spoilers then shall raise their head.
Jewels and gold from over-seas,
Will bring them peace and joy and ease.”
Of course Alan in his reading of the prophecy modernized the antique
diction. There was much more of it, but only Marie knew the whole of
Fate’s decree, and was accustomed to repeat it hopefully when she felt
down-hearted. She always insisted that sooner or later the curse
pronounced on the Inderwicks by the monk would be removed.
As there was no money to keep things in order, the place was woefully
neglected. The great iron gates which swung from pillars surmounted by
the Inderwick escutcheon in the grip of tall dragons had not been
opened for many years, and access to the park was gained through a
small side entrance set in the mouldering brick wall which encircled
the domain. The park itself was so overgrown and wild and tangled and
savage that it might have been that very wood which shut in the
enchanted palace of the Sleeping Beauty. Alan dreamed that it might be
so, and that he might be the fairy prince destined to awaken Marie to a
new life. And indeed since she loved him, and he adored her, he had
succeeded so far; but how her fortunes were to be mended at the present
juncture he could not see. Yet had he been gifted with psychic powers
he would have known more or less positively that he was on the eve of
entering a new lane down which he would lead the girl towards happiness
and prosperity.
A short brisk walk up the neglected avenue brought Fuller into the wide
open space wherein was placed the great mansion. Some portions of the
original monastery remained, but during hundreds of years it had been
so altered that the monks would have had some difficulty in recognizing
their former habitation. Parts of the building had been pulled down and
other parts built up, that had been altered and this had been permitted
to remain in its original state, so that the old house presented an
incongruous appearance which could be ascribed to no particular epoch
of architecture. With its walls of grey flint, brown stone, red brick,
and here and there blocks of white marble somewhat soiled by wind and
rain and sunshine, it looked singularly picturesque. And the whole was
overgrown with ivy, dank and green and wonderfully luxuriant, since it
was never trimmed and never cut. The big building looked as though it
were bound to the soil by the tough tendrils and what with the rank
coarse grasses and the trees which grew right up to the walls, it might
have been part and parcel of the earth itself, so swathed was it in
greenery. There was something noble and austere about the dwelling
befitting perhaps the Benedictines who had dwelt in it at one time, but
it looked altogether too sombre and unwholesome to shelter the fair
head of Marie Inderwick, who was all smiles and sunshine. And as Alan
advanced towards the huge porch which was supported on twisted pillars,
she unexpectedly made her appearance like a gleam of light shooting
across a thunderous sky. It was Alan the lover, and not Fuller the
lawyer, who made this poetic comparison.
“Darling! darling!” cried Marie, running down the broken steps with
outstretched hands. “I knew you would come. But how late you are! I saw
you in the church this morning, and have been expecting you all the
afternoon. It is now three o’clock and only at this moment do you put
in an appearance. No, I won’t be kissed. Uncle may be at the window and
would make trouble, as he always does. Besides you don’t deserve a
kiss, when you neglect me so.”
“I shall take one for all that,” said Alan, suiting the action to the
word, “and in spite of possible dragon eyes at the window.”
“But your neglect,” pouted Marie, playing with his necktie, arranging
it and rearranging it after the manner of women whose fingers must
always be busy.
“Dearest, I stayed for the midday communion, and when I came out you
had gone home with your uncle.”
“He hurried me away, Alan. He’s always very particular to keep an eye
on me when you come down.”
“Undoubtedly. He wants you to marry a title.”
Marie shrugged her shoulders in a French fashion which she had acquired
from a Parisian school friend at the Brighton seminary. “As if anyone
would marry a pauper like me.’
“I think any man who has an eye for the beautiful would only be too
glad to marry such a lovely pauper.”
“That’s nice. Say it again and slowly.”
“A lovely pauper, an adorable pauper, an angelic———”
“Stop! stop! You flatter too much. You don’t mean what you say.”
“Not a word,” confessed Alan candidly.
Marie grew red and her eyes flashed. “Then how dare you say such
things!”
“You expect me to and you shouldn’t fish.”
“In shallow water? Certainly not! Alan Eric Reginald Fuller,” she gave
him his complete name and pinched his arm, “you are a bear.”
“Bears hug,” said the lover, taking her in his arms.
“Oh, my gracious, you will get me into trouble,” cried Marie,
extricating herself with some difficulty and flying across the lawn,
followed hot-footed by Alan. “Come and hide out of sight of those
horrid windows. Uncle Ran is sure to see us otherwise, and will order
me indoors. Come! come,” she sang like a siren and fled after the
fashion of Atalanta into the woods.
The trees were bare of leaves, but here and there a fir stood up green
and sombre, while the undergrowth of brambles and grass and ferns and
various weeds had not yet lost their autumnal tints so that the park
did not as yet look entirely wintry. The day was warm too for late
November, and pale sunshine irradiated the grey depths of the sky, so
that the birds had plucked up heart to sing, perhaps in the hope of
averting coming snows. At top-speed Marie flew down a side path which
twisted and straightened at intervals for a considerable distance until
it ended In a kind of sunken dell in the centre of which was a circle
of cemented stones rising slightly above the fading herbage. Over this
was a wooden canopy of ancient appearance with a tiled red roof
weather-worn and mellow, and beneath, a deep hole which seemed to
penetrate into the bowels of the earth. This was St. Peter’s Dell and
St. Peter’s Well since the monastery had been dedicated to the chief of
the Apostles. Marie loved the spot, and haunted it in summer for the
sake of its coolness. Now she came because she knew that her
philanderings with the forbidden lover would not be seen by anyone.
“And Uncle Ran is asleep,” she explained as she perched herself on the
ragged rim of stones. “He always sleeps for an hour in the afternoon,
because he says that it keeps him alive.”
“I wish it didn’t,” growled Alan, placing himself beside the girl, and
putting an arm round her, probably to prevent her from falling into the
depths. “I don’t like your Uncle Ran, dear.”
“Since he won’t let you make love to me, I can quite understand that,”
said Marie rather pertly; “but he’s all the relative I have so I must
make the best of him, Alan. But you haven’t told me how I am looking.”
“Why, I’ve used at least a dozen adjectives. But I shall examine you
carefully, darling, and give you my honest opinion.”
Taking her chin in his hand, he turned her face upward, and looked into
the happy blue eyes. Marie was indeed a very pretty girl, although not
perhaps so superlatively lovely as Alan imagined. Her face would never
have launched a thousand ships, or set fire to Troy Town. But her
complexion was transparent and as delicately tinted as a rose, with the
dewy look, so to speak, of that flower at dawn. Her hair was golden and
waved over her white forehead in rebellious little curls. Then she had
sapphire eyes and a straight little Greek nose, and two fresh red lips,
which seemed to invite the kiss Alan now bestowed. As her figure was
wrapped up in a heavy fur cloak of great antiquity, it could not be
seen at the moment, but Alan, who was well acquainted with its suave
contours, knew that it was the most perfect figure in the three
kingdoms, as her hands and feet were the smallest and most well-shaped.
But what really drew his heart to Marie was her sweet expression and
candid looks. Some women—few, of course—might have possessed Marie’s
items of beauty in the shape of form and coloring, but no one, and Alan
said this aloud with great decision, ever owned such heavenly smiles or
could give such tender glances. Marie sighed and approved of the praise
and nestled her head against his rough frieze overcoat.
“You always tell the truth, darling,” she said, after he had assured
her that she was something higher than an angel.
“Always!” Alan kissed her again for the tenth time. “And now I want you
to tell me the truth, Marie.”
She looked up somewhat puzzled. “About what?”
“About the peacock of jewels, which———”
The girl drew away from his encircling arm and slipped to the ground.
“Why do you want to speak about that?” she asked, standing before him
and looking as charming as the Queen of Sheba when she visited Solomon;
“it was lost before I was born, and no one ever speaks of it. Except
Uncle Ran,” she added with an afterthought, “he loves jewels, as you
know, and always regrets the loss, although the peacock belongs to me
and not to him.”
“Marie,” said Alan again and gravely, “come and sit down, as I have
something important to tell you which you must not repeat to your uncle
until I give you leave.”
“I shall sit here,” said Miss Inderwick, sinking on to the trunk of a
fallen tree which was a few feet away, “and I wish you wouldn’t look so
solemn or talk about such things. You make me nervous.”
“There is nothing to be nervous about, my dear.”
“Then why am I not to repeat what you say to Uncle Ran?” demanded Marie
in an inconsequent manner.
“Because I think if Mr. Sorley got that peacock he would be greedy
enough to keep it to himself.”
“He couldn’t. It’s mine.”
“He would, because he looks upon your property as his own.”
“The peacock was left to me by my father’s will, along with the park
and the house,” insisted Marie folding her hands pensively. “It was
particularly mentioned because of the good fortune it will bring—that
is when the secret is discovered.”
“The secret. What secret?” Alan spoke almost sharply.
“That connected with the golden peacock. You know the story?”
“Only that there is such a fetish, which is supposed to be the luck of
the Inderwicks.”
“And has been for one hundred years and more. But the secret———”
“I have heard nothing about that.”
“Now I come to think of it, I daresay you haven’t. I only became
acquainted with the real meaning of the peacock of jewels a year ago. I
read all about it in a manuscript which I found in the library. When
was the battle of Plassey, Alan?”
“In 1757,” answered Fuller, who had a good memory for dates.
“It was won by Lord Clive, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. But what has that to do with the peacock?”
“A great deal, as you shall hear.”
“One moment, Marie. Is this peacock of Indian workmanship?”
“No. It was made by a man called Simon Ferrier, who was the servant of
my great great great—I don’t know how many greats—grandfather.”
“Let us say the grandfather who lived about the time of Plassey. What
was his name?”
“George Inderwick. He went to India to———” Here Marie broke off and
looked at her lover searchingly. “But why do you ask about the
peacock?”
“I’ll explain that when I have heard the legend.”
“It isn’t a legend, but a true story, and you are very mysterious,”
said the girl somewhat incoherently. “Well then, George Inderwick went
out to India long before the battle of Plassey in the hope of restoring
the family fortunes. He was only a younger brother and left The
Monastery in possession of Julian Inderwick. Things were very bad with
the family then and they have been worse since. Now”—Marie
sighed—“everything is lost unless the treasure is discovered.”
“The treasure?” Alan looked excited. “Is there a treasure?”
“Of course, you stupid thing. That is the secret of the peacock.”
Alan became exasperated by the way in which he had to drag things out
of her and frowned. “I wish you would tell me the story clearly,” he
said tartly.
“I shall do so if you won’t interrupt so often,” retorted Marie. Then
looking round the quiet dell, as if for inspiration, and finally
finding it in the eager look in her lover’s eyes, she began the tale.
“George went to India along with his servant, Simon Ferrier, who was
his foster-brother———”
“Wait a bit,” interrupted Fuller again. “Who wrote this manuscript?”
“Simon Ferrier, and I won’t tell you anything if you keep asking
questions, Alan. How can I speak when you talk?”
“I am dumb, my dearest virago. Go on.”
“I’m not a virago, you horrid boy. Well then, George went to Madras as
a clerk of the East India Company, and was lent to some rajah to drill
his army. He learned soldiering from Lord Clive, although he wasn’t
Lord Clive at the time. Simon went with George to some hill fort and
palace and the two became quite friendly with the rajah. Then some
enemy of the native prince they served stormed the palace or town or
whatever it was, and killed the lot of them.”
“Even George and Simon?” asked Alan, noting the loose way in which she
was telling the tale, and privately deciding to ask for the manuscript,
so that he might read it himself.
“No, you silly. They were taken prisoners. But before the place was
captured, the Begum—that’s the rajah’s wife—gave all her jewels to Mr.
Inderwick, because he saved her life, and the life of her son. Simon
hid them when he and his master were captured by the other king, or
rajah, or———”
“Never mind; say captured by the enemy.”
“Oh, very well,” said Marie obediently, “when they were captured by the
enemy. They were a long time in captivity, and George was forced to
drill the native troops, while Simon was made to work as a jeweller.”
“Why as a jeweller?”
“Oh, it seems that he had been brought up in England as a watchmaker,
and having mended some clock belonging to the enemy, he was set to work
in a shop to make ornaments for the enemy’s wives. He learned how to
make Indian ornaments and became very clever—at least he says so
himself, but perhaps he was bragging.”
“I don’t think so, if the stories about the beauty of the peacock he
made are to be believed,” said Fuller thoughtfully, and recalling
certain stories related by old village women who had set eyes on the
ornament in question before it had disappeared. “Go on, dear. This is
interesting.”
“The most interesting part is to come,” replied Marie, nodding her
small head with a wise air. “Simon managed to get away, and went back
to where he had hidden the jewels. He dug them up and came to
England———”
“Leaving his master in captivity. How shabby of him.”
“He only did what his master told him,” said Marie quickly. “He was to
take the jewels to England and give them to Julian Inderwick so that
the fortunes of the family might be restored. But Simon did not like
Julian and found out that he was a spendthrift and a gambler. If he had
given him the jewels they would have been wasted, and the Inderwicks
would have been none the better for them. Simon therefore said nothing
about his mission, but he hid the jewels and then returned to India to
rejoin his master, who was now free and was fighting beside Lord
Clive.”
“Well, and what happened then?”
“When the battle of Plassey was being fought, and before Simon could
return to his master, he was taken prisoner by those who had before
held him captive. They had come to know about the jewels, and insisted
that he should tell where they were. Simon was even tortured to make
him tell, but he refused to speak, so they grew tired and set him to
work again, as a jeweller. It was then that he made the peacock.”
“Why the peacock particularly?”
“Because he wished to let George Inderwick know where the jewels of the
Begum were hidden in England, and could only do so by indicating the
place through this golden peacock.”
“But in what way?”
“I don’t know. I can’t find out. Simon feared lest the secret should be
discovered by the Indians and lest they should send someone to England
to get back the gems. He therefore, as I say, made the peacock, and
contrived to have it taken to George Inderwick through a native who was
friendly to him. He then died, after writing the manuscript, telling
his master that the secret was hidden in the peacock. He was murdered,
I believe, as he says at the end of his manuscript that he expected to
be put to death.”
“But what was the use of sending the secret to George when it could not
be guessed?”
“It _was_ stupid,” admitted Marie thoughtfully, “since George never
managed to find out from the peacock where the jewels were. In his
anxiety to keep the secret from everyone but his master, Simon
over-reached himself, and entirely forgot that George would find it as
hard to learn the truth as anyone else into whose hands the peacock
fell. However, he died, and the ornament with the manuscript came to
George. After the battle of Plassey George returned home with some
money, and tried hard to learn the whereabouts of the jewels from the
peacock. Julian by this time had died, so the younger brother succeeded
to the estate—what there was left of it. He—George, I mean—was poor all
his life, as he brought back very little from India, and all he could
do was to keep what Julian had left.”
“Well?” asked Alan, seeing that she said no more.
“That is all. George left a will saying that the jewels were to be
found if the secret of the peacock was discovered. But Simon, in his
desire to keep them safe, had hidden the truth too securely. Everyone
has tried to find the truth, even Uncle Ran, for I asked him, but all
have failed.”
“How much are the jewels worth?” asked Fuller after a pause.
“Oh,” Marie jumped up and spread her hands, “thousands and thousands of
pounds, dear! One hundred thousand, two hundred thousand, I don’t know
how much. There are rubies and emeralds and opals and diamonds
and—and——” she stopped for want of breath. “Isn’t it wonderful, Alan?”
“Wonderful indeed,” admitted the young man.
“So there is one or two hundred thousand pounds attached to the
possession of the peacock of jewels if its secret can only be
discovered. Hum! It’s worth risking one’s neck for.”
Marie ran up and shook him by the arm. “How can you say such horrid
things?”
“I am not talking of my own neck, Marie, but of that belonging to the
man who murdered Baldwin Grison.”
“Oh.” The girl stared. “I know that the poor man was murdered. Mrs.
Millington—she’s the village dressmaker, and a friend of mine—told me
about that crime. Louisa Grison was Mrs. Millington’s bridesmaid, and
they are very much attached, and—and—but, Alan, what has the peacock to
do with this horrid murder?”
“Much. Baldwin Grison was murdered, as I truly believe, so that his
assassin might obtain it. Now listen, dear, and be sure you don’t
repeat what I say to your uncle.”
“No, I won’t. Though I don’t see why you want to keep things secret
from him. Go on. What is it?”
Fuller quickly and concisely told her all that he had learned from Dick
Latimer and Inspector Moon relative to the Rotherhithe murder, and laid
great stress on the fact that Jotty the street-arab had seen the
peacock of jewels. Marie listened with open mouth.
“But you can’t be sure that the poor man was murdered because of the
peacock,” she said when he ended. “Besides, how could he have it?”
“Oh, that last is easy. Grison was your uncle’s secretary and may have
taken the peacock out of revenge, knowing that Mr. Sorley was fond of
jewels. On the other hand, Grison may have read the very same
manuscript about which you have been telling me and might have tried to
learn the secret.”
“Then he could not have,” cried the girl positively, “else he would not
have remained in that horrid slum. Who has the peacock now?”
“The assassin.”
“Who is he?”
“No one knows, and no one can find out.”
“But are you sure Mr. Grison was murdered because of the peacock?”
asked Marie again, and doubtfully.
“I think so, since the room was ransacked, and Grison had no other
object of value in his miserable dwelling to tempt anyone to commit a
crime.”
“Well, it might be so. But why am I not to tell Uncle Ran?”
“Because I wish to find the peacock and deliver the assassin of Grison
to justice. If Mr. Sorley goes on the trail also he will get the
peacock and will not give it to you, to whom it rightfully belongs.”
“I see. Of course I shall say nothing. And Alan”—she laid her arms
round her lover’s neck——“do find the peacock, and let us look for the
treasure.”
“And then?” questioned the young man, smiling at the bright face.
“Then! then,” said Miss Inderwick, dancing away from him, “why then,
you stupid creature, we can marry and defy Uncle Ran.”