The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others

by R. Austin Freeman

  He was, just approaching the house when Katharine overtook him and, judging by his early return that something had happened, asked eagerly: “Have you got it, Joe?”

  Fittleworth smiled. “I’ve got some sort of document in shorthand,” he replied.

  “Do you think it says anything about the picture?” asked Katharine. “But there,” she added, with a laugh, “my excitement is making me talk nonsense. Of course, I’ve got to find out what it says.”

  “Yes,” said Fittleworth, “you have; and I wish you joy of the job. It’s a fearful scrawl; so bad that nobody has been able to decipher it yet. The librarian tells me,” he added, with a knowing glance at her, “that only three months ago, an American scholar, who had obtained permission to go through the collection, spent more than a week trying to decipher it with the aid of a watchmaker’s lens and had to give it up after all. So you see, my dear, that you have a very pretty little task before you.”

  Katharine looked at him thoughtfully. “That doesn’t sound very encouraging,” she said; and then, after a pause, during which she reflected profoundly, with her usually smooth forehead furrowed by cogitative wrinkles, she looked up suddenly. “I suppose, Joe, he didn’t make anything of it after all.”

  Fittleworth laughed genially. “I was waiting for that,” said he. “You are thinking that the American scholar may be a gentleman of musical tastes. I expect you are right and I hope you are, as that would prove that we are really on the track of our friends; but we shall be able to judge better when you have given us a sample of your skill. We shall be rather up a tree if you’re not able to decipher the thing.”

  The latter contingency Katharine declined to entertain, and the pair, resisting the attractions of tea, made straight for Mr. Winton’s dark-room. The three plates were developed without a hitch, and while two were drying in the rack, the third was taken to the window for inspection.

  Well,” said Fittleworth, as Katharine stood at lie window, holding out the wet negative towards the sky, “what do you think of it?”

  For some seconds Katharine made no reply, but continued to gaze at the crabbed lines on the black background with a frown that gradually deepened.

  “It’s very small writing,” she replied, at length, and frightfully indistinct.”

  “Yes, I was afraid it was,” said Fittleworth; “but can you make out anything of the—er—purport, or—er—or, what it’s about, in fact?”

  There was a brief pause; then Katharine, looking him tragically in the eyes, exclaimed:

  “My dear Joe, I can’t make out a single word. It’s absolute scribble.”

  There was another pause, at the end of which Fittleworth murmured the single and highly irrelevant word, “Moses!”

  The impatience of the investigators would not allow them to wait for the natural drying of the negatives One after another, the plates were plunged into methylated spirit, and when dry, printed off rapidly on glossy bromide paper; and with the prints before her on a table by the study window, the agonised Katharine fell to work with Fittleworth’s pocket lens and a most portentous frown.

  Five minutes passed. Fittleworth moved stealthily, but uneasily, about the room on tiptoe, now forcing himself to sit on the edge of a chair, and now forced by his excitement to rise and tiptoe across to another. At length, unable to contain himself any longer, he asked in a hushed voice: “Is it very awful stuff, Katie?”

  Katharine laid down the lens and looked round at him despairingly.

  “It’s perfectly frightful, Joe,” she exclaimed. “I simply can’t make anything of it.”

  “Perhaps it isn’t Rich’s shorthand at all,” suggested Fittleworth.

  “Oh, yes it is. I can see that much and I’ve made out a ‘with’ and two ‘the’s,’ but the rest of it looks like mere scribble.”

  Fittleworth sprang from the chair on which he had been seated nearly ten seconds. “Oh, come,” said he; “if you can make out that much, you can make out the rest. Only we shall have to go to work systematically. The best way will be to mark each word as you decipher it and write it down on a piece of paper. That’s the best of working from a photograph which it doesn’t matter about spoiling.”

  “I don’t quite see what you mean,” said Katharine.

  “The method I suggest is this,” he replied. “First mark the three photographs A, B and C. Then, number the lines of each and prepare three sheets of paper lettered and numbered in the same way. Then, when you decipher a word, say on photograph A line 6, write it down on the sheet marked A, on the sixth line and the proper part of that line; and so on. Could I help you?”

  Katharine thought that he could, and accordingly, he drew a chair to the table and proceeded to prepare three sheets of paper in the way he had suggested and to mark the photographs.

  There is something about a really methodical procedure, that inspires confidence. Of this Katharine was immediately sensible, and when the two “the’s” and the “with” had been set down in their proper places, she felt that a beginning had really been made and returned to her task with renewed spirit.

  “There’s a ‘his,’” she announced presently, “at the end of line 1, page B, and the first word of the next line is a longish one ending in ‘ty.’”

  It isn’t ‘Majesty,’ I suppose,” suggested Fittleworth.

  “Yes, of course it is,” exclaimed Katharine, “and the next word is ‘wt,’ followed by two short words ending in ‘ll.’”

  “White Hall?” queried Fittleworth; and White Hall it turned out to be on further examination. The next proceeding was to search for a recurrence of these words with the result that “His Majesty” occurred six times in all, and “‘White Hall” twice.

  “Now try the words adjoining ‘His Majesty,’ Fittleworth suggested. “Take the one on page B. We’ve got ‘His Majesty at White Hall.’ Now, what is before that?”

  “There’s a ‘me’ and then ‘attack’ or ‘attach.’”

  “‘Me attack His Majesty,’ “murmured Fittleworth. “That doesn’t sound right. Could it be ‘attend’?”

  “Yes, I believe it is, and then the word before it must be ‘bidding.’ We’re getting on splendidly. Let us try the ‘His Majestys’ on page A. Line 5 seems to begin: ‘As to its’ something, ‘His Majesty has’ something, ‘his’—now, what has His Majesty done? Oh, I see, ‘written.’ ‘His Majesty has written his—”

  “Instructions,” suggested Fittleworth.

  “No, nor wishes, nor—oh, I see ‘commands,’ and the next words are ‘in full in a’ something, ‘which he’ something ‘to me in a small’ something ‘box.’ Now, let us see if we can fill in that sentence. ‘As to its’ something, ‘His Majesty has written his commands’; now, as to his what? It seems to begin with a ‘d’.”

  “Destiny?” suggested Fittleworth, and as Katharine shook her head he proposed “destruction,” “deposition,” and finally, “disposition.”

  No, it’s not ‘disposition.’ It’s ‘disposal.’ ‘As to its disposal His Majesty has written his commands in full in a paper which he ‘—something ‘to me in a small’ something ‘box which he—’”

  “Gave, sent, presented, showed, exhibited…”

  “‘Delivered,’ that’s it. ‘Delivered to me in a small’ something ‘box.’”

  “Wooden, ivory, leather, silver—”

  “Gold,” announced Katharine triumphantly, “‘a small, gold box’; and the sentence runs on: ‘the said box being’ something ‘with His Majesty’s’ something, something, ‘and this box he bid me put by in some safe and ‘—it looks like ‘secret place.’ I’m getting to read it much more easily now. Let us go hack to that ‘box.’ ‘With His Majesty’s’ something seal,’ I think.”

  “Private seal, perhaps.”

  “Yes, of course. Then it reads: ‘The said box being sealed with His Majesty’s private seal and this box he bid me put by in some safe and secret place.’ This is splendid, Joe. We shall make it out yet and you can see
already that we’re on the right track.”

  “Yes; and we can see how those other gentlemen got on the track. But as you seem to be getting more used to the writing, wouldn’t it be as well now to try to begin at the beginning and go straight on?”

  “Perhaps it would. But the question is, which is the beginning?”

  “The best way to solve that difficulty would be to work out the first line of each page. Don’t you think so, Katie?

  “Yes, of course; and I’ll begin with page A. Now, the first line seems to read: ‘bids me to carry ‘—no, it isn’t ‘carry’; I think it’s ‘convey’—’convey it to Sir’—Andrew, I think—’Sir Andrew Hyde—’”

  At this point Katharine laid down the lens and turned to gaze at Fittleworth with a very curious expression of surprise and bewilderment.

  “A namesake of yours, Katie,” he remarked; “an ancestor, perhaps.”

  Yes, Joe, that’s just it. Only, in that case it would be ‘Sir Andreas.’” She scrutinised the paper again through the lens and at length exclaimed triumphantly, “and it is ‘Andreas.’ Let us see how it goes on: ‘To Sir Andreas Hyde, a cousin of my Lord Clarendon’—yes, that is the man—‘who is to deposit it in some secure place in one of his houses in Kent.’ I wonder if he means the picture!”

  “We shall see presently,” said Fittleworth; “but meanwhile it is evident that this is not the first page. Just have a look at page C.”

  Katharine transferred her attention, as well as her excitement would permit, to the latter page; but after a prolonged examination she shook her head.

  “This isn’t the first,” she said, “for the top line begins with the words: ‘had concluded the business.’ Then page B must be the first. Let us try that.” She brought the lens to bear on the opening words of page B, but after a brief inspection she sat up with an exclamation of disappointment.

  “Oh, Joe, how tantalising! This isn’t the first either! There’s a page missing. You will have to go back to the library and see if you can find it.”

  “That’s rather a facer,” said Fittleworth; “but I think, Katie dear, we’d better work out what we’ve got as these pages will have to be deciphered in any case, and then we shall be able to judge how much is missing. Let us have the first line of page B.”

  With a dejected air Katharine picked up the lens and resumed her task, slowly reading out, with many a halt to puzzle over a difficult word, the contents of page B.

  “…to me a messenger bidding me attend His Majesty at White Hall. Whereupon I set forth and found the King in the Matted Gallery, talking with divers officers and noblemen. When I had kissed his hand he spoke to me openly on the affairs of the navy, but presently, making an occasion to carry me to his closet, did there open the matter concerning which he had sent for me. It appeareth that he hath caught some rumours of certain noblemen and bishops—even the Archbishop as he do think—having invited the Prince of Orange; which he did condemn as most fowle, unhandsome and treasonable. Now, recalling the misfortunes of his brother the late King and their royal father, he would make some provision lest he should be driven into exile, which God forbid. Here upon he spake very graciously of our long friendship and was pleased to mention most handsomely my faithful service and judgement in the service of the navy, and then he did come to the matter in hand. First he spake of Sir William Pepys who did bring his ship the ‘James and Mary’…”

  That was the end of page B, and, as Katharine eagerly to scan the already deciphered first the other two pages, her eyes filled.

  “Oh! Joe dear!” she exclaimed in an agonised voice, “what an awful disappointment! Don’t you see? It doesn’t run on at all. These are only odd leaves.”

  “M’yes,” said Fittleworth. “It does look rather a take in. Still, we’d better go on. And as page C seems to refer to the conclusion of the business, whatever it was, we may as well take A next. Keep up your courage, little woman. I may be able to find the missing pages at the library. Now, what has page A got to say?”

  Once more Katharine addressed herself to her task, wiping her eyes as a preliminary measure; and slowly and with many a halt to wrestle with an almost undecipherable word, the crabbed scrawl was translated into good, legible longhand.

  “…bids me to convey it to Sir Andreas Hide, a cousin of my Lord Clarendon, who is to deposit it in some secure place in one of his houses in Kent. As to its disposal, His Majesty hath written his commands in full in a paper which he delivered to me in a small golde box, the said box being sealed with His Majesty’s private seale, and this box he bid me put by in some safe and secret place, and to speake of the matter to none, not even Sir Andreas himselfe, until after His Majesty’s death and that of the Prince of Wales (if God should spare me so long) unless, in my discretion it should seeme goode to do so. Also that I do make some provision for the delivery of the said paper in the event of my own death.

  When I had returned home I considered at length where I should bestowe the golde box, and presently I bethought me of the King’s picture which Sir Godfrey is now about Painting and which His Majesty do design to give to me, and it did appear to me that the wooden frame whereon the canvass is strained should furnish a moste secure hiding-place. I made no delay to seek out Sir Andreas at his house at Lee in Kent, to whom the King had already spoken about the matter, and did deliver into his hand the said…”

  Here the page ended, and, when she had written the last word, Katherine, alter a brief interval of numb silence, fairly burst into tears.

  Fittleworth stroked her hand consolingly. “There now, Katie darling,” he said in a soothing tone. “We won’t cry about it, though it is most confoundedly disappointing. You have done splendidly; and we are really picking up quite a lot of information.”

  “But what was it that he gave Sir Andreas? It couldn’t have been the picture, because he hadn’t got it then.”

  “No, evidently not. Let us work out page C. This is quite a short piece and looks rather like the end of the record.”

  Once again, Katherine dried her eyes and took up the discarded lens; and slowly—but less slowly than before—the decipherment proceeded.

  “…had concluded the business, the tide serving, I did take boate to White Hall and there reported to His Majesty what I had done but said naught about the picture, reflecting that the secret shall be safer if t’is known to none save myselfe.

  “This is a weighty business and do trouble me somewhat; indeede I do mistruste the King’s plan which hath too much of secrecie, and leaveth too much in the hands of one man, though that man be, God knows, honest in intention and wishful to serve His Majesty in all things, especially at this sorrowfull time. But I shall do as I am bid and if it please God that the affaire miscarry, at leaste it shall be through no lacke of zeale on my parte.”

  As Katharine wrote the last word, she closed the lens and handed it back to Fittleworth. “There!” she exclaimed, “that is certainly the end of the record and we are just as wise as to what it was that he gave to Sir Andreas as we were before. You will have to go back to the library tomorrow and search for the missing leaves.”

  Fittleworth held up an admonitory finger. “Now don’t be an impatient and unreasonable little person, Katie. It is most likely that the missing pages have disappeared altogether, so, before we spend precious time in searching for them, let us consider what we have got out of these.

  “First, we know that the lost stretcher-bar contained a small gold box in which was an important document. That is a great point scored; a very great point, Katie; because, you will please to remember, it was pure guess-work as to whether there was anything at all in the stretcher until you deciphered these papers.

  “Then we know that Pepys handed to Sir Andreas a something that was evidently of considerable value. We don’t know what that something was, but we know where it was deposited—at least we should if we could find out where Sir Andreas’s houses in Kent were.”

  “I can tell you that,” said Kathari
ne.

  “You can!” exclaimed Fittleworth, gazing at her in astonishment.

  “Yes,” she replied complacently, “I can tell you all about it. You seem to forget that I am a Hyde. This Sir Andreas was the head of our branch of the family and I know all about him. We were just plain country gentlefolk, unlike our great connections, the Clarendons, and the Rochesters, but we have pretty complete family records, and I have studied them in great detail. Sir Andreas had three houses; one at Lee, near London, one at Snodland, near Maidstone, and a third, a small place called Bartholomew Grange, in the Isle of Thanet. Sir Andreas, who was a Catholic, was killed at the Battle of the Boyne, and the family seems to have become considerably impoverished soon after, for his son, Matthew Hyde, sold the houses at Lee and Snodland and went out to New England.”

  “And what became of those two houses?”

  “I believe they were both pulled down and rebuilt. At any rate, they went out of the family. Well, Matthew remained out in New England until the beginning of Queen Anne’s reign—1703, I think—and then he set sail for home in a merchant ship called the Harvest Moon. The Harvest Moon sailed out of Boston Harbour in December, 1703, and was never heard of again, nor, of course, was Matthew Hyde; and the estate—what little there was of it—went to his son, Robert, who had remained in England.”

  Fittleworth considered these facts in silence for some time, toying abstractedly with the papers. At length he spoke.

  “I think we can guess what happened. Pepys kept his own counsel during the whole reign of Dutch William, but when Anne came to the throne (she was a daughter of Anne Hyde, by the way, and a kinswoman of yours), he looked on the succession as settled, and being then an old man, thought it time to inform Matthew of the existence of the document hidden in the picture and that other something that he had given into the custody of Sir Andreas. I imagine that he sent a messenger to Matthew with a sealed letter containing this information, that Matthew immediately sailed for England and was lost at sea; and that before the news of the shipwreck reached this country Pepys himself was dead (he died on the twenty-first of May, 1704). Thus the secret was lost, even as wise old Samuel Pepys had feared that it might be.”