“The Shambles!” exclaimed Winifred, looking at Thorndyke with a startled expression. She appeared to be about to ask him some question, but at this moment he turned sharply into a narrow alley, into which we followed him. I glanced up at the name as we entered and read it aloud—“Harrow Alley.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “quite a historic little thoroughfare. Defoe gives a very vivid description of its appearance during the Plague, with the dead-cart waiting at the entrance and the procession of bearers carrying the corpses down the narrow court. Here is the old ‘Star and Still’ tavern, and round the corner there are the shambles, very little changed since the seventeenth century.”
He turned the corner towards the shambles, and then, crossing the narrow road, dived through an archway into a narrow paved court, along which we had to go in single file. This court presently opened into a squalid-looking little square, surrounded on three sides by tall, ancient, timber and plaster houses, the fourth side being occupied by a rather mean, but quaint little church with a low brick tower. Thorndyke made his way directly to the west door of the church, and taking from his pocket a key of portentous size, inserted it into the lock. As he did so I glanced at the board that was fixed beside the doorway, from which I learned that this was the church of St Peter by the Minories.
As the door swung open Thorndyke motioned to us to enter. We filed in, and then he drew the door to after us and locked it from the inside. We stood for a few moments in the dim porch under the tower, looking in through the half-opened inner door; and as we stood there, Winifred grasped my arm nervously, and I could feel that her hand was trembling. But there was no time for speech, for as Thorndyke locked the door and withdrew the key, the inner door opened wide and two men—one tall and one short—appeared silhouetted against the east window.
“These are my friends, of whom I spoke to you,” said Thorndyke. “Miss Blake, Sir Lawrence Drayton, Mr. Brodribb, Mr. Anstey—the Reverend James Yersbury. I think you have met this other gentleman.”
We came out into the body of the church, and having made my bow to the clergyman, I turned to the smaller man.
“Why, it’s Mr. Polton!” exclaimed Winifred, shaking hands heartily with my colleague’s familiar; who greeted us with a smile of such ecstatic crinkliness, that I instantly suspected him of preparing some necromantic surprise for us.
“This is quite a remarkable building,” said Sir Lawrence, looking about him with lively interest, “and it appears the more striking by contrast with the shabby, commonplace exterior.”
“Yes,” agreed the clergyman, “that is rather characteristic of old London churches. But this is rather an ancient structure; it was only partially destroyed by the Great Fire and was almost immediately rebuilt, at the personal cost, it is said, of the Duke of York, afterwards James the Second. Perhaps that accounts for the strong Jacobite leanings of some of the later clergy, such as this good gentleman, for instance.”
He led us to a space between two of the windows where a good-sized tablet of alabaster had been let into the wall.
“That tablet,” said he, “encloses a cavity which is filled with bones piously collected from the field of Culloden, and the inscription leaves one in no doubt as to the sentiments of the collector. But I believe it was covered with plaster soon after it was put up, to preserve it from destruction, by the authorities, and it was only discovered about fifty years ago.”
I read the brief inscription with growing curiosity:
PRO PATRIA-PRO REGE 1745
“This Tablet was raised to the Memory of the Faithful by Stephen Rumbold, sometime Rector of this Church.”
“But,” said Winifred, “I thought Stephen Rumbold was rector of St Peter by the Shambles.”
“This is St Peter by the Shambles,” replied Mr. Yersbury. “The name has only been changed within the last forty years.”
Winifred faced me and looked with eager delight into my eyes, and I knew that the same thought was in both our minds. Here, during all the slowly-passing years, the missing deeds had rested, securely hidden with the bones of those patriots at whose side Percival Blake had fought on the fatal field of Culloden. I looked round at Thorndyke, expecting to see some preparations to open this curious little burial-place. But he had already turned away and was moving towards the east end of the church. We followed him slowly until he halted before the pulpit, where he stood for a few moments looking at it reflectively. It was a very remarkable pulpit. I have never seen another at all resembling it. In shape it was an elongated octagon, the panels and mouldings of deep brown oak enriched with magnificent carving. But the most singular feature was the manner in which it was supported. The oblong super-structure rested on twin pillars of oak, each pillar being furnished with a handsome, floridly-ornamented bronze capital and a bronze base of somewhat similar character. But fine as the workmanship was, the design was more unusual than pleasing. The oblong body and the twin pillars had, in fact, a rather ungainly appearance.
“Here,” said Thorndyke, pointing to the pulpit, “is another relic of the Reverend Stephen Rumbold, and one of more personal interest to us than the other. You notice these twin pillars. Aesthetically, they are not all that might be desired, but they serve a useful purpose besides supporting the upper structure, for each of them forms an aumbry, originally designed, no doubt, to conceal the sacred vessels and other objects used in celebrating Mass or Vespers or in administering Communion in accordance with the rites of the Church of Rome. One of them is still discharging this function. This pillar”—here he tapped the northern one of the pair—“contains a chalice and paten, a thurible and a small pyx. This other pillar contains—well, Polton will show us what it contains, so I need not go into particulars.”
“Do I understand,” Drayton asked, “that you have opened the aumbries already and verified the existence and nature of the contents?”
“We have not yet opened the aumbries,” Thorndyke replied, “but we have ascertained that the things are there untouched. Polton and I made an examination some days ago with an X-ray apparatus and a fluorescent screen. It was then that we discovered the plate in the second pillar. I wished Miss Blake to be present at the actual opening.”
At these words, like an actor taking up a cue, Polton appeared from somewhere behind the pulpit bearing a good-sized leather handbag. This he deposited on the floor, and as we gathered round, he took from it a small, rounded mallet, apparently of lead, covered with leather, and a tool of hard wood, somewhat, in shape, like a caulking chisel.
“Which pillar shall I begin on, sir?” he inquired, looking round with a sly smile. “The one with church plate or—”
“Oh, hang the church plate!” interposed Brodribb, adding hastily: “I beg your pardon, Mr. Yersbury, but you know—”
“Exactly,” interrupted the clergyman, “I quite agree with you. The church plate will keep for another half hour.”
Thereupon Polton fell to work, and we crowded up close to watch. The capitals of the pillars presented each two parts, a lower member, covered with ornament, and above this a plain, cylindrical space extending up to the abacus. It was to the lower part that Polton directed his attention. Having mounted on a chair, he placed the edge of the hardwood chisel against the lower edge of the ornamented member and struck it gently with the leaden mallet. Then he shifted the chisel half an inch to the right and struck another blow, and in this way he continued, moving the chisel half an inch after each stroke, until he had travelled a third of the way round the pillar, when Thorndyke placed another chair for him to step on.
“Have you oiled the surface?” my colleague asked.
“Yes, sir,” replied Polton, tapping away like Old Mortality; “I flooded it with a mixture of paraffin and clock oil, and it is moving all right.”
We were soon able to verify this statement, for when Polton had made a complete circuit of the pillar, the plain space above had grown perceptibly narrower and a ring of lighter-coloured wood began to appear below. Sti
ll, the leaden mallet continued to deliver its dull sounding taps, and still Polton continued to creep round the pillar.
By the time the second circuit was completed, the sliding part of the capital had risen half-way to the top of the plain space, as was shown by the width of paler, newly-uncovered wood below. And now the sliding member was evidently moving more freely, for there was a perceptible upward movement at each stroke, so that, by the end of the third circuit, the upper, plain space had disappeared altogether and a narrow ring of metal appeared below; and in this ring I perceived a notch about half an inch wide.
“I think she’s all clear now, sir,” said Polton.
“Very well,” said Thorndyke. “We are all ready.”
He relieved Polton of the mallet and chisel and handed him a tool which looked somewhat like a rather slender jemmy with a long, narrow beak. This beak Polton inserted carefully into the notch, when it evidently entered a cavity in the top of the woodwork. Then he began cautiously to prise at the end of the lever.
For a moment or two nothing happened. Suddenly there was a grating sound; the end of the lever rose, and at the same instant about a quarter of the pillar began to separate from the rest and come forward, showing a joint which had been cunningly hidden by the deep fluting. Polton grasped the top of the loose panel, and with a sharp pull, drew it right out and lifted it clear, but as he was in front of the opening, none of us could see what was within. Then he stepped down from the chair, and Winifred uttered a little cry and clasped her hands.
It was certainly a dramatic moment, especially to those of us who had read the manuscript in the little Book of Hours. The pillar was a great shell enclosing a considerable cavity, and in this cavity, standing on the floor, was a tall leaden jar with a close-fitting, flat lid; and on the lid stood a great, two-handled posset-pot. It was all exactly as Percival Blake had described it, and to us, who had formed a mental picture from that description, there was something very moving in being thus confronted with those strangely familiar objects, which had been waiting in their hiding-place for more than a century and a half-waiting for the visit of Percival’s dispossessed posterity.
For some time we stood looking at them in silence. At length Thorndyke said: “You notice, Miss Blake, that there is an inscription on the jar.”
I had not observed it, nor had Winifred; but we now advanced, and looking closely at the jar, made out with some difficulty on the whitened surface an inscription which had apparently been punched into the metal letter by letter, and which read:
“The Contents hereof are the Property of Percival Blake, MD of Beauchamp Blake in Buckinghamshire, or the Heirs of his Body, AD 1746.”
“That,” said Sir Lawrence, as Winifred read the inscription aloud, “settles the ownership of the documents. You can take possession of the jar and its contents with perfect confidence. And now perhaps it would be as well to see what is inside the jar.”
Polton, who had apparently been waiting for this cue, now lit a small spirit blow-pipe. The posset-pot was tenderly lifted out by Winifred and deposited on a pew-bench, and Polton, having hoisted out the jar and placed it on a chair, began cautiously to let the flame of the blow-pipe play on the joint of the lid, which had been thickly coated with wax. When the wax began to liquefy, he introduced the edge of the jemmy into the joint, and with a deft turn of the wrist, raised the lid, which he then took off.
Winifred peered into the jar and announced: “It seems to be full of rolled-up parchments; a statement which we all verified in turn.”
“I would suggest,” said Mr. Yersbury, “that we carry the jar into the vestry. There is a good-sized table there, which will be a convenience if you are going to examine the documents.”
This suggestion was instantly agreed to. Polton took up the rather ponderous jar and made his way to the vestry under the guidance of the clergyman, and the rest of us followed, Winifred carrying the precious posset-pot. Arrived at the vestry, Polton set down the jar on the table, and Sir Lawrence proceeded at once to extract the roll of stiff and yellow parchment and vellum documents. Unrolling them carefully—for they were set into a rigid cylinder—he glanced over them quickly with the air of one looking for some particular thing.
“These are undoubtedly the title-deeds,” he said, still turning over the pages quickly with but a cursory glance at their contents, “but—ha! Yes. These are what we really wanted. I had hoped that we should find them here.”
He drew out from between the leaves of the deeds two small squares of parchment which he exhibited triumphantly and then read aloud:
“I hereby certify and declare that on the thirteenth day of June in the Year of Our Lord seventeen hundred and forty-two, at the church of St Peter by the Shambles, near by Aldgate, the following persons were by me joined together in Holy Matrimony to wit Percival Blake of Beauchamp Blake in the County of Buckinghamshire, Bachelor and Judith Western of Cricklewood in the County of Middlesex, Spinster.
“Stephen Rumbold, MA,
Rector of the said
Church of St Peter by the Shambles.
20th May 1746.”
“That,” said Sir Lawrence, “is what principally matters, but this second certificate clenches the proof. I will read it out:
“I hereby certify and declare that James the Son of Percival and Judith Blake of Beauchamp Blake in the County of Buckinghamshire was baptized by me according to the rites of Holy Church on the thirtieth of May in the Year of Our Lord seventeen hundred and forty-three at the Church of St Peter by the Shambles near by Aldgate.
“Stephen Rumbold, MA,
Rector of the said
Church of St Peter
by the Shambles.
20th May 1746.”
“That,” continued Drayton, “with the other certificates, which I understand you have, establishes a direct descent. And seeing that the estate is at present without an owner, this is a peculiarly opportune moment for putting forward a claim. What do you say, Brodribb?”
“I should like,” said Brodribb, “to have fuller particulars before giving a definite opinion.”
“Oh, come, Brodribb,” Sir Lawrence protested, “you needn’t be so infernally cautious. We’re all friends, you know. Would you be prepared to act for Miss Blake?”
“I don’t see why not,” replied Brodribb. “I am not committed to any other claimant. Yes, I should be very happy to act for her.”
“Then,” said Drayton, “we must arrange a consultation and find out exactly how we stand. I will call at your office for a preliminary talk tomorrow, if that will suit you.”
“Very well,” agreed Brodribb, “come in at one o’clock, and we can lunch together and talk over the preliminaries.”
While this conversation was proceeding, I had observed Thorndyke peering inquisitively into the now empty jar. From this he transferred his attention to the posset-pot which Winifred was guarding jealously. It was a fine specimen of its kind, a comparatively large vessel of many-coloured slip-ware. On the front was a sort of escutcheon, on which was a heart surmounted by a B with the letters H and M on either side and the date 1708 below. Just under the rim was a broad band bearing the following quaint inscription:
“Here is the Gest of the Barly Korne, Glad Ham I the child is Borne.—JM”
“Isn’t it a lovely old thing?” murmured Winifred. “So human and personal and so charming too.”
“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed “it is a fine piece of work. Old Martin was something more than a common village potter. Have you looked inside it?”
“No,” replied Winifred. She took the knob in her fingers and delicately lifted off the cover; and then she uttered a cry of surprise.
“Why,” she exclaimed, “it is the Cat’s Eye—the real cat’s eye this time. And what a beauty!”
She lifted out of the pot a small pendant, curiously like the other one—so much so, in fact, as to suggest that the latter had been a copy. But, whereas the stone in the counterfeit had been a rather dull grey, th
is one was of a beautiful deep yellow with a brilliant streak of golden light. Attached to the pendant was a slender gold chain and a clasp, which, like the pendant itself, was smooth and rounded with years of wear. After gazing for a while at the flashing stone, Winifred turned the pendant over and looked at the back. The inscription was half-obliterated by wear, but we read without difficulty:
“God’s Providence is Mine Inheritance.”
“It is extremely appropriate,” she commented when she had read it aloud, “though it isn’t quite what one expected. But what I don’t understand is how it comes to be here. Percival distinctly says that he had the jewel and that he intended to give it to Jenifer to keep for the child.”
“Not the jewel,” Thorndyke corrected. “He speaks of ‘the bauble’ and ‘the trinket,’ never of ‘the jewel.’”
“You think he was referring to some other trinket?”
“Obviously,” replied Thorndyke. And then, looking at Winifred with a smile, he exclaimed: “O blind generation! Don’t you see. Miss Blake, that events have shaped themselves precisely as Percival designed? Here is his descendant, the child of his children’s children, coming to the hiding-place wearing the precious bauble around her neck and guided by it to the possessions of her fathers. Could anything be more complete?”
Winifred was thunderstruck. For a while she sat, motionless as a statue, gazing at Thorndyke in speechless amazement. At length she exclaimed: “But this is astounding, Dr Thorndyke! Do you mean that this little locket is the trinket that was given to Jenifer and which she lost?”
“Undoubtedly,” he replied, “and the really strange and romantic circumstance is that it was given into your hand by the very impostor who was seeking to rob you for ever of your inheritance.”
“Then,” exclaimed Sir Lawrence, who was almost as overcome as Winifred herself, “it was actually poor Andrew’s ‘little Sphinx’ that gave you the clue to this hiding-place?”
The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 44