“In fact,” suggested Carnaby, “a sort of Cœur de Lion of monks, eh? Handsome? A fine head to match his frame? A great pity his profession called for a tonsure, thereby depriving his mirror of such beautiful curly hair?”
“Something like that,” I nodded.
“And how wrong you’d be,” replied Carnaby. “Mind you, I’m not trying to be clever. Far from it: for in actual fact I was very careless just now when describing him. I quite forgot to mention the most striking point of his description. According to the evidence which I have read in the Sheik’s journal, he was all that you agree to—a splendid masculine figure, et cetera, et cetera. But his head was not fine. It utterly contradicted his stature. He had a tiny little head, with huge eyes and a small mouth that turned up at the corners.”
“What?” In our astonishment we literally shouted, and quite forgetting we were crocks, both sprang from our chairs, staring at one another. Then Hogarth turned to Carnaby and added, “You forgot to mention something else, too, old man. Or don’t you know it?”
“What?” repeated Carnaby in a loud voice, imitating us.
“Why, the monk’s name,” said Hogarth, who was now wincing with pain and steadying himself against the table.
“Didn’t I?” asked Carnaby. “Sit down, you two cripples, and I’ll go on. I warned you I was a rotten storyteller—but I can tell you his name.”
“You don’t have to,” replied Hogarth, easing himself back into his chair. “His name was——”
“Porfirio!!”—and to Carnaby’s astonishment we both said it together.
“Yes—that’s right,” admitted Carnaby, “but how the devil did you know?”
So there was nothing for it—since Carnaby became insistent, but for us to interrupt his story with what we knew about the monk. We thought he would laugh when we told him of Hoadley’s conviction that we had been made crocks through Porfirio’s evil power; but to our surprise he agreed with it, saying it was a theory believed and practised in the East, and that Porfirio no doubt learned it there.
Before Carnaby would take up the threads of his story, he had another condition to make, which was that he should be allowed to sleep that night in the Abbot’s Chapel. Hogarth agreed, and gave Hoadley the necessary orders before urging Carnaby to tell us more.
“The rest is soon told,” said Carnaby, “because it is just a succession of bare facts that I proved during the exercise of my police duties, so you will both find me very much more precise. But you mentioned just now, Hogarth, that this Palace was partly demolished in Islip’s day. Porfirio was here before that, so the map on our red cloth is Wrotham Palace in all its glory. Does it tally with the plan you said you had drawn from the ruins?”
“There it is,” said Hogarth, pointing to an illuminated map in a frame which hung on the panelling between two of the windows. “Take it down and compare it. I can tell you straight away that the main features as I traced them out from bits of paving and broken walls, agree with Porfirio’s. So I think we can say his is the authentic plan in all its details.”
We must have presented a queer group to an onlooker. Hogarth, seated in his high-backed chair, with his black quilted dressing-gown and white cambric stock, looking like some eighteenth-century character in a play; Carnaby—in his rough tweeds, kneeling, with the framed map in both hands, and comparing it with the secret draftsmanship in the red cloth which Hogarth, being nearest to the reading lamp, held out against the light; and I—leaning on my crutches above them, and peering down over their shoulders.
From the red design I could see that Hogarth’s work—so artistically done—was accurate in the main features, as he had said. It was only in minor description that he was wrong—for instance—he had called one narrow chamber Still-room, which Porfirio gave as Wash-house, and another mistake, I remember, was a large hall off the kitchen, which he had marked Scullery, but should have been, according to our monk—Carpenter’s Shop.
Now, interesting as all this was—I was far more curious to hear the rest of Carnaby’s story—and I wondered how long I could keep patient without bringing him back to earth—for he was in a brown study, gazing at Hogarth’s work. I looked at Hogarth, and as I did so, I had that curious instinct that someone or something was behind me—something antagonistic.
I didn’t move for some little time, as my crutches were firmly embedded in the thick pile carpet, and it needed energy to shift them. But I watched Hogarth’s eyes. Their pupils had extended as though focusing themselves upon something surprising—something which he could see immediately behind my back.
Then I turned and nearly cried out in my astonishment—for in the shadows there stood an onlooker—and a most alarming one—a tall Indian, grey-bearded, with white robes showing beneath an old European overcoat.
I have said ‘alarming,’ because in his right hand was a levelled Army revolver, while grasped in his left, with the firelight playing upon it, was an ugly blue blade of a long knife.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“where is the body?”
The deathly silence was broken by Hogarth. “Well?” he asked, and I could see him nudging Carnaby surreptitiously, who, strange to say, took no notice, except to raise the frame against the light, so that it hid the red cloth.
“What do you want?” demanded Hogarth, slowly. He had put the red cloth on his knees, and Carnaby covered it with the frame.
Thinking that Carnaby would not wish to be seen by the Indian, Hogarth took command. “Can you speak—English?”
The native shook his head—and then Carnaby slowly got to his feet and turned—but it was somehow a different Carnaby. He had rumpled his hair over his forehead, and his right eye wore an unrimmed, unribboned eye-glass. His left eye was closed, giving the impression of a very short-sighted man, and he stood with a scholarly stoop which made him appear quite ridiculous, and in utter contrast to the alert and dapper Carnaby we both knew.
“I rather think I can help, my dear Hogarth,” he said in a high, feeble and hesitating voice. “In my tea-planting days I studied various Indian dialects. I shall endeavour to tell him who I am, and try to persuade him not to look so very fierce. Yes—I think that is the best thing, because he seems to be labouring under a crisis. And there’s no harm in giving him my name, I think. It might do good. It can’t do harm. You see, I travelled for Wilkie’s the tea people, and do you know all sorts of people knew ‘Ramsbottom Sahib,’ and I think they liked me because they said I had a funny way with me. ‘Ramsbottom Sahib’—that’s what they all called me. Sounds silly, I know—I much prefer ‘Mr. Ramsbottom,’ but there you are, and not a soul in India ever called me Nick or even Nicholas.”
All this nonsense we knew to be for our benefit—just to warn us that he was putting on an act. “He’s a Hillman, I think, so, come along, Nicholas Ramsbottom—we’ll try him in Pushtu.”
Screwing his face into a thousand perplexing puckers—the newly-born Nicholas Ramsbottom began to speak. And what a contrast in voice and manner to the fierce, deep replies of the Hillman.
They talked for some minutes—Carnaby ranging from diffidence to petty irritation, while the grizzled warrior spoke with powerful conviction.
After their first bout of argument—Carnaby turned to us and interpreted. “Yes—he’s a Hillman all right. Ramsbottom Sahib doesn’t often make a mistake”—and he gave us just the suspicion of a wink with his half-closed eye. “But, I say, Hogarth, I think we should really do something about your butler-wallah. As far as I can gather, this fellow has had him lashed up and put under guard. I’ve told him, very definitely, that he’ll get no help from Ramsbottom Sahib, if any harm happens to the old man. He may be in a bit of a stew, though, and that’s why I suggest we should do something. Just a minute.”
They spoke together again and it certainly seemed that the Hillman was becoming mollified, for he thrust his revolver into his coat pocket and sheathed the knife.
Carnaby interpreted. “Apparently they got through a window in
the long corridor and met Old Hoadley coming from the Abbot’s Chapel. They gagged him and two of them are guarding him with knives. He’s in the pantry as far as I can make out. I’d better go and see, while you fellows wait here and have a chat. I’ll take this awkward-looking bloke with me.”
“I’ll come with you,” I said. “I’m only groggy on one foot, and I’ll borrow this, Hogarth, in case of accidents,” and I slipped a heavy glass paper-weight into my jacket pocket.
“If one crock’s going, so’s the other,” replied Hogarth. He did not follow my lead with another paper-weight, but I saw him slip the red cloth into his pocket. No doubt this was wise.
We must have looked a very odd procession crossing the Hall. The dignified Indian led the way, followed by Carnaby as the stooping Ramsbottom, me on crutches and Hogarth, wincing, swearing and groaning as he dragged himself after us.
The pantry was right. Sure enough we found two Indians staring at Hoadley, and gripping their knives in readiness. Hoadley, gagged but not bound, was at the sink, washing the dinner glasses. If it hadn’t been for the old man’s obvious discomfort, I should have laughed outright. The fact that he would go on with his work, though he was in reach of those deadly knives, was most droll.
Carnaby said something to our guide, who evidently ordered his men to untie Hoadley’s gag, which had been executed with two tray-cloths.
“Thankee, Cap’n Carnaby,” he said. “Didn’t stop me workin’ but I always likes to hum tunes when I’m washin’ up the Master’s best glass. Keeps me calm, does hummin’. But you can’t hum with a tray-cloth down your throat. Well, sir” (turning to his Master), “as I often said to you when we was in India—I can’t abide the Indians, and I certainly ain’t changed my mind to-night.”
“That’s all right, Hoadley,” said Carnaby, “but you can’t get your own back in English, because they don’t understand a word you say. Now, you help your master back to the Library and I’ll deal with these fellows in the Hall.”
So we hobbled back, while Carnaby jabbered away to the three natives by the front door.
While we awaited his return, Hogarth, who in spite of his pain, said he felt better for his walk, insisted on Hoadley joining us in a stiff glass of brandy.
Presently we heard the front door shut and Carnaby joined us, walking briskly and once more his old self.
“Where the body is—the vultures, you know——” he laughed, “and where there’s treasure—crooks.”
“But what are they here for?” asked Hogarth, bringing out the red cloth from his pocket. “This?”
“I’m glad to say we hid it most effectively,” said Carnaby.
“But what good could it do them?” I asked. “And what was that sentence he kept repeating to you? I noticed the other fellows in the pantry said it too.”
“Your ear is quick on the uptake,” replied Carnaby. “Was it this you spotted?”—and he repeated the curious sentence, at which I nodded. “That just means ‘Where is the Body?’ And you’re quite right. They kept on asking it.”
“Whose body—yours?” asked Hogarth.
Carnaby shook his head. “Oh, no. They’re not terribly concerned about me as the Holy Man. They are convinced that the Green Turbaned One has been translated. Whether I have gone to Mahomet and Allah for good, they are not quite sure, but they firmly believe that I used the top of the tower as a stepping-stone to Heaven. Oh—incidentally—I give you fellows full marks for your calm behaviour. You too, my good Hoadley—splendid. I believe you’d all make good policemen.”
“And we’ll give you full marks too, eh, Kent?” said Hogarth. “Your performance of Nicholas Ramsbottom ‘left nothing to be desired,’ as the critic says in “The Stage.” Without a rehearsal, too.”
Carnaby shook his head, “I’ve imitated him before, though I can’t think why he suddenly popped up in my mind. I knew him well in India. I realized, as I saw you did, that if I was recognized as a phoney Holy Man, my number was up, though maybe Kent would have got in first with the paper-weight. ‘Where is the Body?’ eh? No—that meant ‘Where is Old Porfirio buried?’ They think he may have taken the sacred stirrup-cup with him to the grave as a bribe to the Prophet. I have told them quite flat that Porfirio, being a son of the Devil, would have been buried without the honours of God, and that no man knoweth of his sepulchre, and I’ve made them believe that he would never have been allowed to take such a treasure with him. And that raises the point: ‘What did he do with it?’”
“Well—what the devil would any of us do with it if we found it?” I asked. “I suppose it would come under Treasure Trove; but if it was ‘findings keepings,’ what would you do with it?” I put this question to Hogarth.
“I should keep mum while I had it. I shouldn’t want the world to know I was housing such a thing. I don’t know. Give it to Westminster Abbey for use at Coronations or something respectable, though I presume it should go back to the mosque.”
“Certainly not,” contradicted Carnaby. “They should have looked after it better when they had it. British Museum would be the best place.”
“But we’d make Hoadley fill it with the best in Wrotham cellars before we let it go,” I said. “But seriously, wouldn’t the Rector here have some claim to it?”
“Now, I’ll tell you what I would really do with it——” began Carnaby.
“Oh, no, you won’t,” cried Hogarth. “You’ll now tell us something else—those bare facts of police routine you spoke about.”
“Then if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” said Hoadley, “I’ll go and resume my hummin’ where I had to leave it off.”
“What was the tune?” asked Carnaby.
“A pretty little anthem, sir. ‘Why rage fiercely the Heathen?’ and it goes on about people meditatin’ strange things.”
“Strange things, eh?” repeated Hogarth, as the old man made a very good exit on his line. “Come on, Carnaby, he’s given you your cue. Strange things. I believe I’m going to get my best story out of all this.”
Carnaby yawned. “Can’t I tell you in the morning? I’m dog-tired.”
“You don’t get out of it as easily as that, does he, Kent? But I’ll meet you half-way, and catechize you like I used to do in my study when you stole my marmalade. Now—what induces these natives to start looking for the thing after all these years?”
Carnaby sighed, then grinned, as he lit another cigar. “Because the legend has stuck in a lot of people’s imagination. Besides, most legends are founded on fact—some sort of fact—and this one happens to be history. The cup must be somewhere. In the old days it was pretty difficult to play ‘hunt the thimble’ from the Himalayas to Wrotham Hill, but it’s easy to get about the world these days. You only want money and these rascals have oodles. Next, please.”
“The man who gave me the coat in 1912—who was he and why me?”
“That’s two questions. First—he isn’t anyone now. He’s a number. He’s doing time. Life sentence he got. One of a gang of five. Clever crooks in a big way. Took me all I knew to break ’em up. Secondly—when it became known that they had stolen the sacred robe, they found themselves most unpleasantly ‘on the spot.’ You see, they found out all about it when they heard the legend. They knew the value of that red robe, and that it was still kept in the reliquary originally dedicated to Mahomet’s cup. But whereas Porfirio had to do a job of crib-cracking to get at the cup, they found things harder, for locks were child’s play to them. The doors were always kept open and guarded by a watchful custodian who never let that red robe out of his sight. There it hung for any of the Faithful to see. Well—it was the last thing that custodian saw. They killed him and made it look like robbery of the poor-box which they wrenched open. To all intents and purposes the robe was still there, because they didn’t steal the whole thing. They cut out the back portion and left the front hanging—then your friend, Hogarth, who was posing as an English officer, tacked it over the red lining of his military coat. It was never noticed becaus
e it was so obvious. Well—they got away with the plan and the next thing was to find what house tallied with it. All that they knew from the record was that it lay upon the Pilgrim’s Way, somewhere between Canterbury and Winchester, and it is this part of it that makes me laugh. Unable to leave India themselves for a reason I’ll tell you in a minute, they got an agent to work making plans of every Archiepiscopalean palace adjacent to the Way, and to override the natural objection of landlords and tenants to having their property surveyed by unauthorized strangers, they hired a helicopter and hovered over places for days at a time, drafting bird’s-eye views. Of course, the joke is that they were not up in medieval Church history, or they would have rumbled that Old Islip had beaten them to it by removing most of the palace that mattered. Mind you—and I say this for them in their favour—they realized the thing was a long gamble, for no-one knew where the cup was or is, and it happened that they had something much more concrete to work upon, which was King George’s Durbar of 1912. They cleared up a packet there, robbing the Indian Princes of priceless jewels.
“They were carrying out this wonderful programme when Moslem agents got on to their trail about the red robe, and sinister things began to happen, which very soon gave the gang the jitters—a disease very inconvenient for jewel thieves to suffer from. Your friend, Hogarth, who gave you the coat, confessed the whole thing to me when I questioned him after arrest. They realized their only chance of escaping the vengeance of the Moslems was to get that coat out of India. Along comes their chance with a company of English actors, and amongst them that attractive young man, Charles Hogarth. Thinking that the stage manager would be a permanent member of a star’s company, they picked on him. They even knew your London address, my dear fellow, for actors keep nothing secret from the public, and your biography and background was printed with other prominent members of that company upon the theatre programmes. Money being no object, or rather being their whole object, and that’s why they had such a lot, they had you watched in Town, and where as you’ve told us they eventually got back their precious coat. That’s really all, I think. Any questions?”
The Master of the Macabre Page 17