Chapter Twenty Four. Reveals a Scheme

This, in a few words, was my scheme.

For my own part, I was certain that one or other of the many parties who were after the deeds—the Foreign Office, the Jesuits, the representatives of Spain, or the company promoters—would, somehow, make a desperate effort to seize them. Therefore our first duty was clear—to hide them so effectually that none could find them.

Where, then, should they be placed? Both Cooper-Nassington and José Casteno had various suggestions to make in this respect. One was in favour of secreting them under a certain tree in the garden of St. Bruno’s. The other suggested that they should be tied to the clapper in the great iron bell that hung in a dome on the roof. But in the end, for good or for evil, my notion was adopted. We all repaired to the entrance hall, which happened, luckily, to be quite deserted, and there, at the back of the statue of the poor misguided idol of the founder, in a little opening in the pedestal which the base of the figure left uncovered, we bestowed those most precious documents.

Afterwards we returned to the study, and then I produced those three most excellent forgeries of the real deeds which Paul Zouche had made at the hunchback’s request, and by which that precious pair of worthies hoped to throw all unpleasantly close inquirers off the scent when the chase got too hot at the curiosity shop in Westminster.

“It’s a pity that these should not have a chance of showing what they can do in the direction of baffling the inquisitive and the unprincipled,” I observed, with a sly smile, adding the particulars of how and when I got possession of them. “What do you say to labelling these quite openly: ‘Documents re Sacred Lake,’ and placing them in the safe of the Order of St. Bruno, the first place thieves will search if they have come after the deeds?”

“A most excellent suggestion!” exclaimed Cooper-Nassington, with an approving nod.

“And I move,” added Casteno, “that we act on it at once.”

So we did. The Prior himself fetched a lantern, which he lit, and with many a merry smile and jest we three monk-like figures, our black habits making us appear in that dim radiance like ghostly visitants from another sphere, took our way down the flight of stone steps that led from the main corridor of the building to the cellars, where a strong room had been built to hold the archives of the Order. In a whisper, my companion showed me where the keys of the inner door (I had the outer on my armlet), were always hung ready for any member who chose to go and take them down to inspect the contents of the treasure-room. Also they explained that the word to which the lock was always set was “Clytie,” the name of the lady of the statue, as the Council of Three felt certain that only the initiated would remember the circumstances of that lady’s career and her rather occult association with the destinies of the Order.

The door swung open quite easily, and as the Prior deposited the forgeries in a rather accessible position I caught a glimpse of the interior, with its row upon row of huge brass-bound ledgers, its bundle upon bundle of deeds and share certificates and documents in parchment, with many heavily-sealed bags of leather, which, I was told, contained gold or precious stones. Of the increasing value of the latter, I was told, Bruno Delganni had a quite childish faith, hence his investments in them.

Cases, too, were piled on the floor. These contained bullion direct from the Bank of England, to be used only when it was necessary for any political or other purposes to send remittances to the branch houses in Delhi, Sydney, or any other far-off corner of the earth, where transactions through a local bank might attract an unnecessary amount of attention and speculation.

Later, we returned upstairs, and there I expounded what was, after all, the crucial point in my plan—the reconciliation of the principal different interests that were now fighting us with so much deadly bitterness and precision.

“What I suggest,” I said, gazing very determinedly at the two men in front of me, “is nothing more and nothing less than a round-table conference between the lot of us—Lord Cyril Cuthbertson, Earl Fotheringay, the Napiers, the hunchback, ourselves!”

“Why, that’s preposterous!” snapped the Prior, and his eyes flashed, but I would not be gainsaid.

“I am sure it is not,” I retorted with great firmness. “After all, what is it, really, that makes them all so bitter against us? It is no mere dream of making themselves rich—no stupid desire to rob anyone. It is simply pride, when the whole facts are reduced to their proper level, mistaken pride, and, being that, I am convinced it can, in a full and free discussion, be eliminated from this contest between us.”

“I will never meet Cuthbertson,” interposed the Member of Parliament, “never! You forget: our cause of difference is too deep for words to remove!”

“That may be,” I reasoned; “but, after all, are you not patriots first, and men with mere human passions like jealousy and revenge afterwards?”

“And I will not meet Peter Zouche,” declared José, drawing himself up to his full height and folding his arms. “He is my father, but he has not been a father to me. He drove me from my home, and made me a wanderer all over the earth, because I loved England and things English and rejoiced in the fact that, because I was born here, I was able to claim the rights of an Englishman.”

“More than that,” artfully added the Prior, “you, Glynn, forget how badly Fotheringay has treated you. He has made use of you, taken you up and flung you down, and finally had you carted about, as though you were a piece of furniture in his drawing-room. You could not say to him, like I sent word to Casteno, ‘In reparation’ for old unkindnesses with which I treated him when first he wanted to join the Order, and, later, to wed that charming little ward of mine, Camille Velasquon, who, by the way, I myself in panic abducted from you at Vauxhall Station.”

“Indeed I could,” I answered boldly. “We are not one of us as black as the others pretend to make out. Naturally, perhaps, we all want to shine and to become famous over the discovery and translation of those manuscripts. But at present we are all engaged in the amiable task of cutting each other’s throats. Why go on? After all, if England is going to get hold of all those millions and millions now lying in treasure at the bottom of that sacred lake, we must really pull together. The task, even from the diplomatic standpoint, is no easy one. It will test us all to the uttermost. Then why fight amongst ourselves?”

“We sha’n’t,” corrected the Prior; “they will fight us!”

“No, they won’t. They will all come to my round-table conference,” I said gaily. “You see? Now how shall we manage it?” I pretended to stop for a moment to think, and then I went on. “Oh, I see. Its simple enough. We Avili call the gathering together at my office to-morrow night at half-past ten, when we three ringleaders will assemble. For 10:45 we invite Cuthbertson. In half-an-hour we ought to persuade him that his interest lies in the same direction as ours, so at 11:15 we will bid the hunchback to the conference. Give him half-an-hour too, for he is a stubborn old man,” I observed, with a jocular nod in the direction of Casteno, “and then issue invitations to Colonel Napier and his daughter for 11:30, and Lord Fotheringay, who really seems to have less to do with the business than anyone, for 11:45.”

“And, pray, how,” queried Casteno, with obvious incredulity, “shall you communicate with them? Call on them, and ask them? Why, not one of them will see you, or, if he does, he will do it only to discover whether he can’t have you arrested for one or other of our recent pranks.”

“Why, we will telegraph, of course,” I cried snatching up some forms that happened to lie on a davenport close within my reach. “Look here, both of you, how will this do, to be sent to each one’s last known place of address?” And I bent down and scribbled rapidly the following invitation:—

“Please come to-morrow night to the Glynn’s Inquiry Offices, Stanton Street, WC. Manuscripts have been found and decoded. Will put before you a scheme that will ensure success for all.—John Cooper—Nassington, José Casteno, Hugh Glynn.”

“There!” I added. “All we’ve got to do now is to make four copies of these and address each one to the different conspirators, and in each instance put the time we have fixed for our interview with them.”

“I’ll be hanged if I put my name to a meek and mild bread-and-butter come-and-let-us-all-be-friends message like that,” roared the Prior.

“And I’ll be shot if I bribe the pater to do anything for me!” stormed Casteno.

But even then I would not be gainsaid. In the end I carried my point, and the telegrams were despatched by special messenger to St. Martins-le-Grand, so that the recipients could not guess their place of origin.

Then, worn out with the adventures of the day, we all retired to our beds, and not until the morning was far advanced did José come to my room, and, whilst I struggled on the border line between sleep and consciousness, shake me violently by the shoulder.

“Wake up, wake up, thou sluggard!” he cried with a gaiety that was most refreshing and infectious. “While thou art dozing all manner of strange things are happening at these monastery gates. Wake up, I say, and devour this breakfast of hot coffee and grilled chops that one of the lay brethren has brought you. In truth, you will need all the physical support it is possible for man to receive from a well-lined stomach, for outside some most tremendous surprises await you.”

“What the dickens do you mean?” I growled, sitting suddenly bolt upright in the bed and gazing at him with the most rueful countenance. “Why puzzle with riddles a man that is but half aroused? What’s up?” And I made a grab for the cup of coffee that stood on the tray on a chair by the side of my bed, and took therefrom a tremendous draught.

None the less, Casteno would not give in. He perched himself in his monk’s robes at the foot of my bed, and with the aid of many a merry jest and joke at my expense he induced me to devour the good things that had been brought so thoughtfully to the room for me. It was not, indeed, till I had bolted to the bathroom, had a most refreshing tub, and arrayed myself in my own ordinary clothes that he would be persuaded to speak about the events that lay nearest to our hearts. Then he caught me affectionately by the arm and half led, half dragged me down a long corridor to a large lancet-shaped window at the end. This commanded a view of the Chantry Road, the only public thoroughfare that gave any access to St. Bruno’s, and also a sight of some of the fields that were ranged around the monastery grounds.

“Now, my brother Hugh,” he said, with a comprehensive theatrical gesture, “just take some observations for yourself, will you? Then tell me if when I came to you first I exaggerated the gravity of the situation!”

Without a word I turned and gazed over the scene upon which a bright morning sun, aided by a clear sky and the gentlest of breezes, poured down its wealth of golden light. At regular intervals I espied the figures of men who had been posted there, right round the house, for some very obvious purpose. Some were strolling aimlessly up and down, as though they were strangers taking the morning breeze for the good of their healths. Others, according to their character and mood, were lurking behind trees or hedges, or half concealed behind neighbouring walls. But all alike bore the stamp—the same brand of Cain that literally shouted their occupation to the most careless of observers. They could not, any one of them, rid themselves of their military gait or bearing, and I saw at once, just as Casteno had, that they were policemen in plain clothes.

“Humph! Detectives!” I observed, turning away from my post of observation with a shrug.

“Quite so, brother Hugh, quite so,” repeated Casteno, with a triumphant grin. “You have guessed the melancholy truth the first time. They are detectives, engaged in preventing anyone leaving this noble mansion without their knowledge and permission. If you had remained at the window a trifle longer you would doubtless have seen for yourself their most noble leader. As a matter of fact, he is a friend of yours—”

“And pray who is that?” I snapped, for I felt too tired to join in this vein of merriment. “What friend have I in the force?” I asked.

“A gentleman named Naylor, very much at your service,” replied Casteno.

“How? What do you mean?”

“Oh! nothing, nothing at all,” airily continued my companion. “Only at 5 AM he rang the bell at our gate, and after courteously wishing our janitor a very nice ‘good-morning’ he ventured to inquire whether you, brother Hugh, were within. On being told, with our customary truth, that you were he promptly disavowed all desire to interfere with your beauty sleep, and blandly offered to wait outside till it should please the fates to restore to you a sense of your own importance and the necessity for action. Our gate custodian, being a bit of a humourist, agreed that, on the whole, he would find it nicer and warmer outside St. Bruno’s than it was in, but vouchsafed to promise that, when you did arise, he would certainly inform you that so noble and so illustrious-looking a gentleman desired the honour of a few minutes private conversation with you.”

“Oh I shut up that rubbish,” I retorted pettishly, for I saw that Casteno’s florid periods really covered a move of a very grave and far-reaching importance. “The point is not a joke as you pretend. What we have got to decide is the best thing for me to do now Scotland Yard has put these men on my heels! I don’t want this round-table conference to-night to go wrong. I want to be free to be present at it. Indeed, we don’t want any scandal or newspaper publicity just at present. We should be able to imitate moles—moles that work in the dark.”

“That is true,” said a voice suddenly behind me, and wheeling round I found that we had been joined by the Prior. “Would you care to slip off?” he queried after a moment’s painful pause. “I could find you a good disguise as a woman, with a thick black veil, too. We have a passage that runs from this house to a little clump of bushes in a distant field. You could easily dart through that and make your way off without being caught.”

“I am afraid that would only leave you all here in a worse pickle,” I replied after some reflection. “Naylor, after all, will only wait a certain length of time, and if he finds then that I don’t materialise, as our brother at the gate promised, he will be quite wild enough to organise a raid on the place; and remember, after all, it does contain those three precious manuscripts. No; it looks as though I must face the worst after all.”

“But what on earth can he want with you?” cried Casteno petulantly.

“That’s just it,” I said. “I have got to go out and see. Well, it’s no good beating about the bush. If I have to face this unpleasant and inquisitive individual, I have to, I suppose, and the sooner I get it over the better for all of us. You two must keep a sharp watch on me, that’s all, and if you find I am hauled off to the police station on any pretence you must follow me up and try to bail me out.”

“And, failing all else, I will go down to the House of Commons this very afternoon and make a personal appeal for you to both Cuthbertson and the Home Secretary,” cried the Member of Parliament vigorously, for now he too seemed to be quite upset at the line things were taking.

“All right,” I said bravely. “I won’t thank you. We are all now too good friends, and too closely allied, to make use of conventional expressions of gratitude. I trust you—that’s sufficient—and I’ll step out and meet this turn of affairs with all the courage I can muster.”

With a curt nod I turned and left them and made my way down the staircase to the hall, and thence I passed rapidly to the door that shut off the monastery grounds from the public thoroughfare. This last was thrown open at my approach, and I proceeded to the roadway, which for a moment after I entered it looked quite deserted. Determined to carry the interview through with a high hand, however, I stepped out promptly, as though Whitehall at least was my destination, and then it was that Naylor, as I expected, found himself compelled to step from behind a tree and to show himself, which he did with an ugly twinkle of triumph in his small beady black eyes.

“Ah, you’ve come, then?” he said with a grunt, disdaining all conventional expressions of greeting.

“Yes; I’ve come,” I answered with equal discourtesy. “What do you want, eh?” And I stepped quite close to him and faced him.