The priest said nothing. I fancy his bolt was shot. But that he did Palin’s bidding, you might have thought that he had not heard what he said. His face like some dreadful mask, the eyes of which are sightless, he turned to follow Stiven, and Palin fell in behind.
They had gone perhaps ten paces, when I saw the man stop in his tracks. As he did so, he seemed to stiffen, and I thought for an instant that he had been visited by some sudden, fatal disorder and was going the way of Ananias before my eyes. Then I saw that the fellow was staring—poking his head and staring, after the manner of some infamous bird of prey. I followed his gaze, to see, with a thrill of horror, the pretty documents which had attracted his eye. These were a small grey hat, brooched with a plume of diamonds, and a pair of little wash-leather gloves.
“Get on,” said Palin, fiercely.
He knew as well as did I that the damage was done.
Chapter 7. My Lady Opens Her Mouth
Sitting at the dining-room table, Olivia reviewed our spoil.
“Is this all?” she demanded. “Had he no wallet? Or notebook? Nothing at all of that kind?”
“This is all we could find,” said Hubert. “Did you expect something else?”
Olivia nodded. Then she took a small strip of parchment out of a little patch-pocket at the waist of her dress.
“I had hoped for something like this.” She laid the strip on the table and smoothed it out. “Where do men keep precious things? Things that they mustn’t lose and that no one must see?”
My cousin shrugged his shoulders.
“At the Bank,” he said. “I know he wasn’t wearing a belt.”
“Was he wearing a garter? I’ve kept this in a garter for years.”
Ruefully we regarded one another.
“You shall know to-morrow,” said Palin. “We simply cannot return to the worry to-night.”
Olivia shuddered.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But if you could bear to . . . to-morrow, it might be worth our while.”
“Consider it done,” said Hubert.
Olivia picked up the breviary, held it by its edges and shook it, so that its leaves swung free. But nothing fell from between them. Whatever she sought was not there.
She put down the book and picked up her parchment strip.
“My grandfather,” she said, “had a document—a little piece of parchment, just three times the size of this. It contained certain directions. Before he died, he cut it into three strips and gave one to each of his sons. It was rather a good idea, for, you see, he cut it vertically, so that for following the directions, one strip alone is no good. And I don’t know that two would be enough: but they’d obviously be better than one. This was my father’s strip, and each of my uncles has one of the other two.”
She passed the strip of parchment to Hubert, who held it for Palin and me.
The writing was faded, but clear enough to be read; and though the hand was German, I could see that each line was only a word or two long and that the words on the right were nearly all unfinished, because, of course, the knife had cut them in two.
“As the eldest son,” said Olivia, “my father had the first of the strips: as the youngest son, my uncle Herman probably had the third. If we had those two before us, I think we could get some way towards reconstructing the second.”
“No doubt about that,” said Palin, scrutinizing the strip. “If I could only have two, I’d choose the first and the third.”
“Where’s Stiven?” said Olivia, suddenly.
“Visiting patrol,” said Hubert. “His beat is from here to the postern and back again.”
The lady sat back in her chair.
“Listen,” she said. “In the library at Haydn we had, till a few years ago, a curious manuscript. It was a catalogue, such as a collector might make for his private use, of the objects of art which he acquired. It had not been made all at once, but when a piece was acquired it was entered up. In addition to the date of acquisition and a simple description of the piece, the collector had always entered the name of the—the artist, if he knew it: and if he had not bought it direct, then he put the name of the person from whom it had come. Now several things combined to lift this ordinary record out of the ruck. In the first place, the date of the last acquisition was 1502. Then, again, the catalogue was disguised: its pages were interleaved with those of a breviary—” she pointed to that of her uncle “—a priest’s book of his Office, like that. Finally, the breviary was that of Pope Alexander the Sixth.”
“The father of the Borgias,” exclaimed Palin.
“That’s right,” said Olivia. “A Spaniard. The catalogue was written in Spanish—his mother tongue. So that, unless he knew Spanish, anyone impious enough to open his Holiness’ breviary would not be one penny the wiser for what he saw.
“My great grandfather found the breviary in Florence and bought it for a nominal sum. Two years ago my uncles sold it to an American collector for fifteen thousand pounds. He was very decent: he had it photographed for us and we have a copy apiece. All things considered, I don’t think he paid too much.
“Now why did my great grandfather buy it? He’d no idea whose it was. And he couldn’t read Spanish, though later he took care to learn. He bought it because of a letter, lying between the pages, which happened to catch his eye. It was written in Latin, and the address at the foot was Your Castle of Hohenems.
“Well, there were three of those letters. All of them short, and all addressed to the Pope. And all of them said that the writer had ‘received and bestowed the vestments according to your Holiness’ command.’ The writer’s name was Dalas, and there’s reason to think that he was the seneschal.
“I’ll spare you my great grandfather’s labour and pass to its fruits.
“The letters were respectively written in 1500, 1501 and 1502. They were dated, of course. And against each item of the catalogue one or other of the dates of those letters appears. This suggests that during those years the collection was transferred to Hohenems, one third at a time and that the letters were nothing less than receipts.
“That’s one point.
“The second is that on Alexander’s death in 1503, Hohenems was raided and its occupants fled.
“The third is that a man of the name of Dalas, who was then a wheelwright at Robin, sold to my great grandfather the piece of parchment of which this strip is a third. Though he himself did not know it, he was clearly a descendant of the seneschal, for the parchment contained the directions for finding the strong-room in which the vestments lie.
“And the fourth point is that they are not vestments at all, but one hundred and twenty-seven sculptured jewels.”
So far as I can, I have set down her very words: but, reading them over, I see that the printed page can never make the impression which her simple statement produced. But that, I suppose, is natural—for very many reasons, but chiefly, I think, because her voice was so charming and all its inflections were so true.
“And that is the secret,” she concluded, “which your great-uncle had heard of and tried for so long to find. We kept the letters, of course, but I could have wept when they sold the breviary. I had my share of the proceeds, naturally. But think of the sensation, if ever we’d found the gems. I mean, to produce such a collection, with such a catalogue . . .”
For a space we all sat silent, as well we might.
For myself, I felt bewildered. The truth was overwhelming. I seemed to be rubbing shoulders—sitting down and drinking with History and with Romance. ‘Your Castle of Hohenems’ . . . A notorious Pope-to-be had ridden into our courtyard, sauntered upon our ramparts, listened to the rustle of the water beside our gates. His cardinal’s red hat flamed upon the steps of our staircase: his jewelled finger had rested on our balustrade. Caesar and Lucrezia Borgia might well have played as children—shouted and cried and kissed within our walls. The breviary interleaved . . . hiding a record like that of some pirate’s hoard. Whose money, or blood, or tears had
gone to the compiling of that list? How many thousand times had its author smiled upon it, while those that saw him believed him at his devotions, discussing the Word of God? The three receipts for ‘vestments’ . . . Who was this seneschal, Dalas, that even his Holiness trusted, yet dared not trust? Had the Pope in his service one honest man? And had he proposed to withdraw from Rome to Hohenems, when Death stepped in to bid him further afield?
Four hundred years ago. Four hundred years of rain and sun and wind, fretting or soothing Hohenems, raising the woods about her, fattening the valleys at her foot, while all the time the old Pope’s secret lay snug, faithfully kept, yet undreamed of by those that lived beside it and grew old men and presently died in a service they never knew. The old saying came to my mind. ‘He heapeth up riches, and knoweth not who shall gather them.’
“How do we know,” said Palin, “that the ‘vestments’ have not been removed? I’m not being brutal. I’m asking for information.”
“They may have been,” said Olivia. “But what evidence we have is the other way. In the first place, the hoard was secret. Nobody knew of the existence of these particular jewels. Secondly, if they were removed, they’ve one and all disappeared. There’s not a jewel in any collection in Europe that answers the Pope’s description of one of his gems.”
“That’s good enough,” said Palin. “It’s inconceivable that not a single one has survived.”
“I think so, too,” said Olivia. “Then, again, the name of the castle doesn’t appear on the parchment of which this slip is a third. The wheelwright, in fact, believed it to refer to some convent. The ‘vestments,’ of course, suggested a religious house. All he knew was that the parchment was accounted precious and that it always had passed from father to son.”
“Poor fellow,” said I. “We ought to look up his descendants.”
“He died childless,” said Olivia. “If he hadn’t been old and a widower, he wouldn’t have let it go. Then, there’s one more thing. The seneschal may have been faithless, but I don’t somehow think he was. Alexander the Sixth decided that he could trust him, and Alexander the Sixth was a man of the world.”
“Oh, don’t be harsh,” said Pain. “ ‘Man of the world’ is so suggestive, and you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. After all, he only got himself made a cardinal before he was twenty-six, lived openly with his mistress as a Prince of the Church, begat the Borgias, committed every known excess with gusto for nearly fifty years and, as the Vicar of Christ, laid down his monstrous life as the result of inadvertently drinking the wine which he himself had prepared for somebody else.”
Olivia laughed.
“Our press agent,” she said. “When we get home, you shall unveil the discovery in the columns of The Times.”
“Nothing,” said Palin, “would give me greater delight. Gibbon let him down very light—I don’t know why. I shall repair the omission. If you remember, he had a pretty way of—”
“That’ll do,” said Olivia, firmly. “It’s too late for reminiscence and even for making plans.” She put the strip of parchment away and rose to her feet. “If I’d known there would be no servants, I should have brought my maid. But to tell you the truth, I didn’t expect to stay here.”
“I’ll drive you back,” said I.
She shook her head.
“You said there was a bedroom unused. If I may have that . . .”
I led the way at once, and searched the room and its bathroom once again. Then I lighted the fire which was laid and tried the bolt of the door.
“All correct?” said Olivia, smiling.”
“I think so,” said I. “I hope the bed isn’t damp.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “to have taken your only room.”
“We’re so proud to have you,” I said. “I’ll fetch your maid to-morrow and all your things. She shall sleep next to you, and one of the rooms downstairs shall be yours alone.”
“Thank you, John,” said Olivia, “but I must stay at the inn.”
“As you wish,” said I. “Your rooms here will always be ready by day and night.”
She shook her head.
“I must sleep at the inn,” she said. “But I’ll spend the day here sometimes, if you’ll come over and get me and take me back.”
“You’re our managing director,” said I. “I shall come for you every morning at eight o’clock.”
I seemed to have slept for ten minutes when Palin was shaking my shoulder and crying “The balloon has gone up.”
From an embrasure in a tower of the gatehouse I proved the truth of his words.
On the farther side of the fall stood the second of the Hohenems cars. Bugle was sitting at its wheel, sounding its horn: and Bunch and Harris afoot were staring up at the drawbridge with furious eyes.
At once I saw what had happened.
Harris had made for Haydn, instead of Hohenems, relying on Haydn to bring him back to the castle or, if we were in possession, to abet a counter-attack. More shrewd than his subordinates, the instant he learned that ‘Holy’ was alone in the castle, he had perceived the danger of leaving him there at large and now was arrived hotfoot in the hope of checking the mischief which had been done.
“Great things, embrasures,” said Palin, at my shoulder. “I wonder who thought of them first. They allow you to observe, unobserved, and to assault with impunity all that come within range. More. The embrasure is disconcerting. The enemy has no idea whether or no he is being coolly surveyed. The dark, expressionless slits take on a sinister air. Each of them may be hiding a dozen eyes. See? Harris is getting uneasy. He’s taking it out on Bugle for sounding the horn. Unjustly, of course: but he’s nervy. The embrasures have got on his nerves. See him looking from one to the other? With his eyes screwed up, searching? What did I say?”
His words were patently true. Though the three rogues consulted together, they now never once took their eyes from the gatehouse towers, and Bugle was presently ordered to take the car out of range.
What happened then was as good as a scene in some farce.
Harris plainly declared that, since the drawbridge was up, they would have to climb down to the valley and mount the postern steps, but the thought of such an excursion appeared to shock Bunch so much that at first he seemed uncertain that he had heard aright. He stared upon his companion as though he were out of his mind: then he regarded the depths with starting eyes: then he removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. Of this dumb show Harris saw nothing, for he kept his gaze, like some tiger, upon the slits: but presently Bunch touched his arm and began to demur, indicating the brink beside him with a tremulous hand. When Harris looked round to find him pointing, he fairly cuffed him with rage, pointing himself to the embrasures, as though to insist that Bunch by his thoughtless gesture had given away his plan. At this Bunch naturally protested, and the two had a stand-up row, in the course of which Bunch again pointed to the depths and was again chastised, while an instant later Harris forgot his resolution and indicated them himself. To this lapse Bunch drew his attention with a triumphant sneer, at which Harris, goaded to madness, snatched off the other’s hat and hurled it over the cliff. Why this should have sobered Bunch I cannot conceive, but I can only suppose that he set great store by his headgear—in fact it was not his, but Hubert’s—and now perceived with horror that he must indeed descend if he wished to wear it again. Be that as it may, his resentment at Harris’ action seemed to be drowned in concern, for though he certainly complained, he did so over his shoulder and kept peering over the brink as if it were that of some canyon from which no human being had ever returned alive. And there Harris left him gibbering, to make his way to the car, unconscious of the roars of laughter which the two of them had provoked. Indeed, we had very good cause to be glad of the rush of the fall, for had we had to depend upon our efforts, I do not believe that we should, have smothered our mirth.
“End of Scene One,” said Hubert, wiping his eyes. “I hope we shall be on in the next one, so come w
ith me and I’ll give you an idea of our parts.”
He led the way to the courtyard, leaving Stiven in an embrasure to keep an eye on the thieves. . . .
“It’s like this,” said Hubert, setting his back to a chestnut and taking out cigarettes. “If they make for the postern and nothing happens to throw them out of their stride, we shall have the three of them cold. Harris believes that ‘Holy’ is here alone. Thanks to that wire you sent, He believes that we shall arrive here at nine o’clock. It’s now just six, so he has, he believes, three hours in which to enter the castle before we appear. Well, we’ll let him come in by the window that gives to the postern steps. Into the room and the passage and upstairs into our arms. If we play our cards right, he oughtn’t to stand an earthly, and all we shall then have to do is to select his dungeon and keep him watered and fed till the goods are found.”
“But what a brain,” said Palin. “My one and only idea would have been to exclude the darling. In fact, I was going to suggest that we shuttered that window at once. Now I’m inclined to open the postern door. That window-sill oughtn’t to stop them, but Bunch and Bugle don’t give an impression of guts.”
“It won’t stop Harris,” said my cousin. “If he found the postern door open, I think he’d suspect a trap. What I am afraid of is ‘Holy’s’ chauffeur arriving and tearing everything up. Why is Harris here? Primarily, to nobble ‘Holy.’ So the moment he sees ‘Holy’s’ chauffeur he’ll let the postern go and stick to the road of approach. Even if he’s started for the postern, he’ll turn right round and come back.”
“In which case,” said Palin, “the fat will be burnt to hell. They’ll sit down and wait for ‘Holy,’ and ‘Holy’ will not appear. And when nine o’clock goes by, and we don’t appear, Harris will know that we are this side of the drawbridge and ‘Holy’s’ chauffeur will go for the local police.”
“We can only hope,” said Hubert, “that Harris will be out of earshot, by the time the chauffeur arrives.’’ He glanced at his watch. “I wish to God he’d start for the postern. Stiven is coming to tell us the moment he leaves the road.”
Safe Custody and Laughing Bacchante Page 12