Albino's Treasure

by Douglas Stuart

  ‘We do not have much time before Lestrade arrives,’ Holmes interjected. ‘If we are to conclude our business before the Inspector claps one or both of us in irons, we should make haste.’ His words did not fill me with confidence, but I allowed him to continue without interruption. ‘I hope you will trust me, Watson, but perhaps if once I have fulfilled my promise to Zenith, I then tell you of his to me? Then you, with your great fund of solid common sense, can decide what the final outcome should be? Would that be acceptable?’

  Shameless flattery, of course, but I have always trusted Holmes and I would have agreed to his terms without cajolement. ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Go ahead, Holmes.’

  He gave me a peculiar look, as though he had expected more of an argument, then began to speak.

  ‘If you will permit me to begin with a small digression, it is strange to me that a case which began with an attack on a powerful man should end in much the same way. It seems an age since Corporal O’Donnell took such a dislike to Lord Salisbury’s portrait, and yet from that insignificant beginning we find ourselves now contemplating the disgrace of a king of whom O’Donnell, I suspect, would greatly have approved.’

  ‘Disgrace?’ interrupted Zenith. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Surely you recognised the quote from Edmund Campion in Hamblin’s letter?’ Holmes replied. ‘No? Very well, let me explain. Campion was a Catholic priest, martyred during the Reformation. Legend has it that, upon being found guilty of treason, he cried “you condemn all your own ancestors, all our ancient bishops and kings, all that was once the glory of England, the island of saints.” That, I suggest, is a particularly pointed and specific epigram for Hamblin to have included, especially when combined with a lament for the difficulty of loving one’s ruler.’

  In response, Zenith lit one of his cigarettes, before offering the case to me. I shook my head, as did Holmes, but lit a more conventional cheroot and made myself comfortable. Holmes waited patiently then picked up the portrait of King Charles, which I now saw was one of several paintings stacked by the door. Before taking a seat beside the Albino and myself, he carefully propped the painting up before us.

  ‘Do you have any proof of what you have just said, Mr Holmes?’ Zenith asked once Holmes was settled.

  Holmes shook his head. ‘That England’s Treasure is something which would disgrace a king? Other than the Campion quote, nothing as yet. But let me test my hypothesis, and we shall see.’ He tapped a long finger on the painting in front of us. ‘You recall the errant letter “E” reflected in the mirror, Watson? Of course you do; it was that, after all, which allowed us to make sense of the first part of the puzzle and so brought us here.

  ‘Now consider this. What if that single letter was not missed by the painter at all? What if Hamblin in his brilliance intended that smudge of an E to serve a dual purpose? To signal the replacement of the word “BIBLE” with that of “AQUINAS”, of course, but also to serve as the first letter of a six-letter word. The key, Watson, the key to the cipher!’

  He moved the portrait of Charles to one side, exposing the next painting, that of the Magi attending Christ in his manger. ‘Each painting holds a hidden letter as well as a hidden number. Once you know that it is child’s play to recreate the cipher key. Do you see the way that Balthazar holds his hands?’ he asked, tracing a finger across the canvas in a series of straight lines and right angles. ‘An “H”, wouldn’t you say? His fingers could never naturally have lain in that manner and Hamblin’s amendment is not quite as well done as elsewhere. But this is most definitely his work, Watson. Only he had the opportunity and the talent required to make such subtle changes, and the intelligence to create the necessary cipher.’

  ‘So, do you have the complete key?’ Zenith asked, a note in his voice betraying – for the first time – the excitement he felt.

  Holmes flipped each painting forward as he replied. ‘A perfectly straight sword held aloft… the decoration in Augustine Hamblin’s ruff… the curl of Anne Boleyn’s hair. The miniature of Jacob and Esau in which the second letter is hidden is in your possession, Zenith, but I think I can confidently fill in that particular gap without troubling you to fetch it. There are only so many words containing the letters E, H, I, C and S, after all.’

  ‘Ethics!’ I cried, prompting Holmes to smile indulgently.

  ‘Indeed. Now if you will hand me that scrap of paper and my pencil, Zenith, we will see what secrets the cipher holds.’

  The Albino did as he asked, prompting a period of feverish scribbling from Holmes.

  While he worked, I expressed my sorrow for the loss of Major Conway. Zenith, to his credit, seemed genuinely upset by the death of his lieutenant.

  ‘I had not worked with him long, of course, but he was extremely competent, and rather a good card player,’ he said matter-of-factly, but his face amply conveyed his feelings.

  Holmes, meanwhile, gave out a small cry of triumph behind me. Before I could push myself from my chair he had bounded over and clapped me heartily on the shoulder.

  ‘I have it, Watson,’ he exclaimed. ‘We need to find one more book and the riddle of England’s Treasure will be complete.’

  He pulled a nearby table across and spread a sheet of paper out on it. As previously, the very top of the page contained the odd string of letters that we had found written in Aquinas’s book, but underneath Holmes had written ‘ETHICS’, repeating the letters of the word until they lined up with the nonsense above. The page was, therefore, not very dissimilar to Holmes’s earlier attempts. It read, in part,

  WXYUQFSGAGTSRMZ

  ETHICSETHICSETH

  Now, though, a third line could be read beneath these two. SERMON ON TYRANTS, it said, in Holmes’s distinctive script.

  ‘A sermon about tyranny by another great Catholic thinker,’ he announced triumphantly. ‘Savonarola, if memory serves. An interesting choice of hiding place, would you not agree, Zenith? The title alone suggests that Hamblin was no dewy-eyed royalist who believed the King to be a perfect ruler, but was rather a pragmatist determined to help his friend, even while knowing he was in the wrong. Of course, Savonarola was executed for challenging the authority of his rightful lord, the Pope, so the sword is two-edged.’

  Zenith was far too impatient to discuss such tangential matters, however. ‘You believe the Treasure to be hidden inside a sermon?’ he asked, querulously.

  ‘Inside a collection of sermons, perhaps, or a biography of Savonarola. Something of that nature. Perhaps it is a map, and I was not entirely lying to the Lord of Strange Deaths after all?’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Wait here, Watson, while I check for a copy in the library.’

  He hurried out. Zenith, after one quick glance in my direction, followed hard on his heels, determined that Holmes would have no opportunity to play him false. I was amused by this evidence that the pact Zenith and Holmes had concocted was not founded on as solid a base as they believed. I knew that Holmes would not break his word, but for all his apparent bonhomie and brash self-confidence, Zenith was not so trusting.

  The two men were back within minutes.

  In his hands, Holmes held a small clothbound book. This thin volume he spread face down on the table then, with the sharp pocketknife he habitually carried, slit the cracked spine down the middle. An index finger inserted into the gash and pulled back ripped the front cover off, exposing a neatly folded sheet of paper which had been secreted inside.

  Zenith reached for the document, but Holmes pulled it back quickly. ‘I think it best that whatever this may be, it stays in my own hands for now. I would not care to put too much temptation your way, Zenith.’

  With the merest hint of a smile, Zenith acquiesced, and retook his seat. For myself, I was considerably recovered and felt confident enough in my condition to walk over to the sideboard and pour myself a drink. Whisky in hand, I returned to my seat, and waited for Holmes’s inevitable explanation.

  As it turned out, Holmes had a more active role in proceedings in min
d for me. As soon as I was seated and had placed my glass down, he handed me the folded paper and asked me to examine it. I half expected Zenith to snatch the document from my hand, but he remained where he was, opium smoke curling from his mouth and partially obscuring his face.

  The paper was old but expensive, a buff yellow in colour, and thick and slightly coarse to the touch. I could feel the resistance of untouched centuries in the folds as I carefully levered them apart, nervous of splitting the sheet along the line of a sharp crease. In this manner I managed, over the course of several anxious minutes, to fully unfold the sheet and lay it down upon a table which Holmes carried over for the purpose.

  It was neither a letter, nor a map.

  Instead, laid out before us for the first time in two hundred and fifty years, was a proclamation that could turn English history on its head.

  In a mixture of gloriously golden individual letters and short though ornately scripted sentences, it proclaimed that King Charles agreed to cede the throne of England to the French crown, in return for military help from King Louis the Fourteenth of France against the Parliamentarian New Model Army. The language was unequivocal – and damning.

  Howsoever Princes are not bound to give Account of their Actions, but to God alone; yet, for the Satisfaction of the Minds and Affections of our loving Subjects, we have thought it good to set down thus much by Way of Declaration: that we seek to prevent war and discord in this Country most fair and that we are in this unwilling to Gamble as though with Dice with the future of our Realm.

  Let no Man put about Falsehoods and Calumnies, but understand that we are no more Ignorant of such vile slanders than we are Ignorant of the Sun and Moon. We are Confident that God is at our side in all things and that Victory over the current Rebels is a Matter of Time alone, but we fear that Destruction stalks the Field and Death follows behind on his Black Horse.

  So it is that in all Reason and Honour we call God to record, before whom we stand, that it is our Heart’s Desire to pass that Title, of King and Defender of the Faith, to our Royal Brother, Louis of France in sincere recompense for the Gift of his Soldiery at this Time. We shall take ourselves to the Continent where we shall continue our studies and live a Life of Quiet Contemplation.

  And now having laid down the Truth and Clearness of our Proceedings, all wise and discreet Men may discern, by Examination of their own Hearts, whether the Happiness of this Nation can be parallel’d, by any of our Neighbour-Countries; and if not, then to acknowledge their own Blessedness, and for the same be thankful to God, the Author of all Goodness.

  There was an absolute silence in the room, broken only by the steady tick of a mantel clock.

  Holmes, predictably, spoke first.

  ‘That is not precisely what I expected,’ he said. ‘I had reasoned that the Treasure was not actually a trove of great size, of course, but I had assumed that it was something of great value, if comparatively modest dimensions. Originally, I assumed some item of personal jewellery, or a precious gemstone. This, though, is far more interesting.’

  He held the document up and tilted it against the light, looking for watermarks or secret writing, I presumed.

  ‘It is a simple enough matter to reconstruct events based on the evidence to hand. Horace Hamblin, loyal supporter and companion of King Charles the First, is visited by his royal friend at some point in the early years of the First Civil War, and is given a great secret – that Charles intends to abdicate his throne in favour of King Louis the Fourteenth of France, in the event that his army is defeated. Such was Charles’s belief in the divine right of kings and his distaste for Parliament that he preferred that England fall into foreign but royal Catholic hands, rather than those of his disloyal subjects. Hamblin reacts badly to these confidences – you recall Miss Rhodes mentioned a falling out between the two men early on in the war, Watson? – but he is loyal to the core and cannot completely turn his back on his monarch.

  ‘With that date in mind, we can confidently say that at some point between the initial disagreement and his capture by the Scots in the summer of 1646, the King had Hamblin create the proclamation we have before us, and put it aside for a time of desperate need. The paper has been folded more than once – you can see the fainter fold lines cutting across the ones you so ably undid, Watson – thus it was in Hamblin’s hands for some time, I would say.

  ‘In any case, the plan was obviously that should the time come when all looked lost, Hamblin should take the proclamation to Louis’ court – or more likely his envoy in England – and exchange the Crown of England for French arms and safe passage for the King to Europe.’

  ‘Why did he not play this card when Charles fell into the Scots’ hands, or when the Scots sold him on like a slave to the English in January 1647?’ Clearly Zenith had read up on English history.

  ‘I do not like to guess, and it is impossible at this remove to say for certain, but I would say that while kept a prisoner it would not have been possible for Louis to guarantee Charles’s safety. Rescue operations can go wrong very quickly, and lead to dead prisoners as easily as dead guards.

  ‘But the King escapes from his Parliamentarian captors for a few weeks in November of 1647, and it is while he is at liberty that Hamblin judges the time right for an appeal to Louis. Perhaps Charles manages to get word to him, and orders his plan put into action? Whatever the case, Hamblin’s exit is barred by the troop of belligerent Roundheads camped in his grounds. If he cannot deliver his precious cargo to the King of France, then he must ensure someone else can.

  ‘So it is that he conceives of a most audacious plan. Barring his doors in order to gain enough time to complete his task, he sets out to combine his skills in art and cryptography to create a riddle which only a man he has specifically chosen could ever solve. He subtly amends something in each of six works of art. That done, he carefully secretes the proclamation where it will not be found, except by those he wishes to find it. Finally, he writes a letter to the man he has chosen, Simon Jarvis, providing just enough information for the recipient to find the proclamation and take it to the French court.

  ‘A brave, brave man, Horace Hamblin, in addition to his many other talents. He must have known his own death was imminent, yet he spent the last days of his life constructing a great riddle which he hoped would save the King with whom he had once been so close. Unfortunately, something went wrong, and the letter to Jarvis was never sent, but instead ended up inside a neglected book in a forgotten library, until the Lord of Strange Deaths stumbled across it.’

  ‘By which time, it was long past the time when Hamblin could do the King any good,’ I said, a little sadly.

  ‘That is true, Dr Watson,’ Zenith said, equally sorrowfully, ‘but the true irony is that the result of Hamblin’s efforts could be a scandal that would rock the current holders of the British crown. Picture the scene if political agitators should get wind of this. An English King selling his homeland to save his own skin? It would play very well amongst the radicals and malcontents who plague the capital cities of Europe. That is something I would avoid at any cost. It was for that reason that I agreed that once we knew what the Treasure consisted of, we should ask you, a most – if you will forgive the description – solid Englishman to decide its fate.’

  It struck me that, for all his exaggerated indolence, there was an iron core and a strong intellect contained within Zenith, which was utterly unconnected to his more commonly displayed persona. I couldn’t be sure which aspect was a sham, but I was positive that the Albino was a man to be respected as much as feared.

  He took a step back and inclined his head just a notch in my direction. ‘What shall we do with England’s Treasure, John Watson? The decision is yours.’

  I knew what would be the safest decision, but instinctively I also realised that the safest and the best options were not one and the same. ‘We should destroy this document immediately, of course,’ I said, ‘but… it is a thing of beauty, and of historical importance.
One day it will have no power left, and on that day I should not care to be the one who must admit he had destroyed it through fear.’

  Zenith appeared content with my answer. He flicked his cigarette into the fire and prepared to take his leave.

  Holmes tapped one finger against his lips, then nodded once, sharply, towards the Albino. ‘My brother Mycroft will be able to make the document disappear, but without losing it forever. You have my word on the matter, Zenith.’

  Zenith nodded in turn and, as they stood together in front of the fire, I was struck by the resemblance between the two men – the one a tall, spare and dark-haired Englishman, the other an equally gaunt white-haired Continental. One man a negative image of the other, they shook hands. Zenith retrieved his hat and cane, and with a short bow to each of us, exited through the drawing-room window and was quickly lost in the darkness outside.

  As Holmes carefully folded King Charles’s proclamation and placed it in his inner jacket pocket, I heard the first sounds of carriages arriving at the front of the house, followed by the subdued chatter of many men attempting to remain in ranks as they approached an unfamiliar target in the dark.

  ‘Perhaps you should open the door for the Inspector,’ Holmes suggested solemnly, but with a mischievous smile. ‘I doubt that he will have brought Miss Rhodes along, but I’m sure he can direct you to her.’ His smile widened to a definite grin. ‘Should you wish to check on the lady, of course.’

  ‘Really, Holmes!’ I protested, but with no conviction, and hurried to welcome Lestrade and his men.

  Acknowledgements

  As is customary with a first novel, I have a few people to thank for getting me this far. Scott Liddell, Paul Magrs and George Mann have been both the best friends I could hope to have and a constant source of encouragement and good advice. Angela Douglas, Elaine Conway and Ross Douglas read the book in draft and gave me excellent, if overly kind, feedback, and Miranda Jewess was as near to perfect an editor as a fledgling author could hope to have.