"Have they tried?" I asked.
"Oh, of course, the place must have been searched and dug over many times without success," was his response. "Not, of course, of late. I have known Crowland for the past sixty years, and no search has been made in my time."
"Whose permission would have to be obtained if operations were commenced on a serious scale?" I inquired, as though suddenly interested in this popular legend.
"My own," was his response. "The paddocks outside the churchyard wall are my private property. The last time search was made appears to have been in 1721, for in the register there is an entry of nine shillings having been paid to four men for digging in search of the supposed treasure. A note is added that nothing was discovered of any great value."
"Well," I said, "the legend is certainly interesting, and I, for one, would like to make investigations some day, if you would allow me."
"You are quite welcome, providing you replace all that you excavate," he answered. "Of course, it will require time, money, and a good deal of patience. Besides, it will not do for the villagers to know your object, otherwise you"ll have a constant crowd of onlookers. When would you suggest making a start?"
"Ah! I must consult with my friend, Captain Wyman, here," I said. "At present I have a good many engagements. A little later--perhaps. But, of course, this is in strictest confidence."
"Very well, Mr Kennedy," he said. "If you really intend to investigate in earnest, I shall be most happy to render you a.s.sistance."
We remained with him a short time longer, and then walked back to the George Hotel, a small, old-fashioned place, where our driver had put up the horse, and took luncheon together in a cozy old-fashioned room overlooking East Street, the narrow thoroughfare roadway leading from the curious triangular bridge to the abbey.
This hotel was, we found, one of the very few in England which had not been spoiled by modern progress. The dishes were excellent country fare; but the one fact that impressed itself upon us was that the plate on the table was all early Georgian silver.
As far as we had gone everything had turned out well. The local legend appeared to bear out what was written in The Closed Book, and the fact that we had made a friend of Mr Mason, the rector, was also highly gratifying.
We had been consuming cigarettes with our gla.s.ses of old port--served in the old-fashioned style on the bare polished table--and I had risen to glance out through the wire blind into the sunny street prior to going forth into the ruins again, when of a sudden I heard the voice of someone approaching, and next instant two persons pa.s.sed the window, and were lost to view almost before I was aware of their presence.
But in that moment, as they pa.s.sed, I recognised in one--tall, thin, and grey-haired--the Earl of Glenelg, and in his companion--short, ugly, and hobbling--none other than Francesco Graniani, the hunchback of Leghorn, the man whose strange connection with The Closed Book was such a profound mystery.
"Look?" I cried to my companion. "Lord Glenelg has pa.s.sed with the old hunchback antique dealer who first told me of the existence of the Book.
Why are they here--why has Graniani travelled all the way from Italy if not to seek the abbey treasure?"
"If you"re not mistaken, Allan," answered my friend, jumping up and joining me at the window, "then you may be certain that the missing page in the book contains directions for the recovery, not only of the casket up in Scotland, but of the hidden gold here. They have no idea we are here, that"s evident. But that they know more than we do is equally clear."
"But why is Graniani over here?" I queried.
"He"s been brought over, no doubt, because he possesses some key to the hiding place. The whole affair seems to grow more and more bewildering."
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
TACTICS OF THE ENEMY.
Walter Wyman, a thorough-going man of the world, was quick of resource.
Indeed, it was his shrewdness and clever ingenuity that had extricated him from many a tight corner during his long journeys of exploration.
More than once had he carried his life in his hand on that perilous trip from the Albert Nyanza up to Darfur and Kordofan, which he boldly undertook for the intelligence department of the war office prior to Kitchener"s march to Omdurman; and more than once it was his quick foresight and promptness of action that had saved him.
The picture of health, he was an ideal British officer, well set-up, well-groomed, and well-clad; and as he stood there in a suit of grey tweed and Panama hat, a thoughtful frown crossed his merry countenance reddened by African suns.
"I"ll tell you what it is, Allan, old chap. We ought to ascertain how the enemy intend to start their campaign. There"s something decidedly funny about your old Italian hunchback being over here. Are you quite certain you"ve made no mistake?"
"Absolutely. Graniani has gone past with the Earl."
"But the latter is believed by everyone in town to be still in India.
His own servants must, of course, be in the know, but the whole circ.u.mstances are suspicious. Now, the hunchback doesn"t know me, therefore I shall have a much better chance of following them than if you came. They mustn"t know that you are here."
"No. Go and see what their game is. I"ll remain here and wait for you.
They"ve evidently gone through into the abbey, and will be poking about there. Keep a sharp eye on them, and we may learn something from their movements."
"All right," he answered, and without another word went out, closing the door after him.
The maid came in and cleared the table. Then I was left alone standing at the window, the wire blind of which fortunately prevented me from being seen from the street.
An hour pa.s.sed, tolled out by the musical bells in the tower, but my friend did not return. Something important was transpiring, no doubt.
To pa.s.s the time, I took from my pocket the transcript of the old record, and reread it from beginning to end. I made a note of various books to obtain in the reading-room of the British Museum, in order to verify the statements both regarding the doings of the Borgias and the events in Galloway in the middle of the sixteenth century, as recorded by the old chronicles. My own antiquarian tastes told me that, in order to properly pursue this investigation, we must be armed with historical facts and data; and that in all probability this might be obtained either at the British Museum or at the record office. In the history of the Borgias I had been interested for years, and had read many works dealing with that celebrated family of prelates and poisoners; but of the history of Galloway I confess that I was in almost total ignorance.
True, I had been in Galloway, shooting with my old friend Fred Fenwicke of Crailloch, when my eyesight was better than it now is, and had admired the wild beauties of the country--a land of hills, streams, and lochs, and full of charming spots as beautiful as any in Scotland. I had crossed the purple heather of Lochenbreck, had traversed the giant solitudes of Carsphaim and the boulder-strewn plains of Dromore; and had shot grouse at Shirmer"s--the locale of my friend Mr Crockett"s charming story, "The Lilac Sunbonnet,"--and fished the Dee for salmon at Tongland Bridge and in the murmuring Garpal where it runs over its grey rocks through the deep wooded glen in front of Fred Fenwicke"s fine old mansion of Crailloch; yet with its historic a.s.sociations I had never before had occasion to trouble myself.
I knew the t.i.tles of several books which, however, I thought might a.s.sist me, and put these down for reference.
But through it all--indeed, through all the day--thoughts of Judith Gordon, that beautiful yet tragic figure that had stood beside me on that cliff beside the summer sea, haunted me continually.
Sitting there, impatiently awaiting Walter"s return, I reflected upon her att.i.tude towards me, and saw that she held me more in terror than in abhorrence.
You may dub me a fool for this piece of folly of the heart.
Nevertheless, I tell you that this was no mere idle fancy based upon a sudden admiration, but a deep and genuine attraction, such as men experience only once in their lives.
I had never lived before that hour. Though she had shown no sign of tenderness to me, she was woman in all that could render woman adorable to man. All my days, those long weary youthful days of work and worry in London, and those years of lazy, idle lotus-eating by the Mediterranean, had been pa.s.sed in striving and in longing, and my ideal had ever fled from my grasp, leaving me tantalised, athirst, unblessed.
But everything had now altered. Here, in the midst of this storm and stress of mystery, one woman had suddenly come to me, and I had stood by her side enchanted. I was not sorry now that the plenitude of happiness had so long been denied me; I was glad that fate had kept me unsated.
But these pages are simply pages of record, not of argument.
When Walter re-entered the room, his clothes dusty and his face perspiring, I saw from his countenance that something curious had occurred.
"I"ve watched them the whole time," he said breathlessly, as he closed the door behind him. "They"ve put up at the `White Hart," opposite the old bridge, and have been over the fields round about the ruins with a plan drawn on tracing-paper. They evidently know what they are about, for they haven"t been in the ruins proper at all, fortunately perhaps for me, for I concealed myself there and watched all their movements.
The old hunchback speaks English quite well."
"Speaks English?" I cried, surprised. "Why, in Leghorn he always feigned ignorance of any single word of English."
"For his own purposes, no doubt," laughed my friend. "Ten minutes ago I overheard him talking English with his lordship quite fluently. It seems as though this old Italian has a plan,--a tracing, no doubt,--and from it they are locating the whereabouts of the treasure. They have a measuring-tape with them, and have taken a lot of measurements, all from the southern b.u.t.tress of the central tower. Their measurements, however, extended much farther than ours, indeed right away into the field beyond the one where are the remains of the fish ponds. You recollect where a footpath crosses, which, it appears, leads to a place called Anchor Church House, whatever that may be. Well, they measured, took angles by the b.u.t.tress of the tower, and here and there stuck into the gra.s.s little pieces of whitewashed wood like labels gardeners use.
They"ve evidently been marking out the ground in a long oblong patch, and both were exceedingly careful that their measurements should tally exactly with what was given upon the plan. Lord Glenelg went about sounding various spots by tapping the earth with his cane. The latter I discovered was a bar of iron painted dark-brown, and hooked to represent a walking stick--a clever contrivance to escape attention. He evidently expected to find some hollow spot."
"But that is not borne out by the record left by old G.o.dfrey, is it?
Why should they expect to discover a hollow?"
"Ah! that"s a mystery," he responded. "I merely tell you what I"ve just seen--namely, that they have some plan from which they are working in a slow, scientific, and methodical manner, not in our field, but in the one beyond, in what I"ve ascertained is called the Great Postland. They have a compa.s.s with them, and have taken proper bearings."
"Well, they"ll have to get the permission of the owner of the land before they can dig, that"s certain. I wonder to whom it belongs?"
"To the Church, no doubt. If we warn our friend, the rector, we"ll no doubt be able to stop their little game, at least for the present,"
remarked Walter. "Unless, of course, the magic of an earl"s name carries more weight than ours. Recollect that Lord Glenelg is a Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries and a well-known archaeologist."
"But why is he investigating a spot that is not mentioned in The Closed Book?" I queried. "This seems to me an independent search altogether."