CHAPTER VIII.—THE SEARCH—CONCLUSION.
Rising early in the morning, mine host’s solitary guest had ventured out on foot for a walk through the village. Having passed the last of the straggling cottages, he now stood beneath the frowning portal of the ruined monastery. It was Christmas morning, and all was silent here, silent as the voices of those who built the pile which they vainly thought would have ‘canopied their bones till Doomsday.’ Of the stately abbey church which had once lifted its head so proudly over the fen, and beneath whose shadow slept the ill-fated baronet, but one ruined wing remained, and in this the snowdrift had accumulated to the depth of several feet. Straight from the north-east, soaring through the dark mist that gathered thickly out to the seaward, a screaming gull flapped on its way—a certain harbinger of more rough weather to come. As it passed near, the bird’s discordant cry roused Ainslie from the moralising train of reflections in which he had been indulging, and turning back, he slowly retraced his steps to the Saxonford Arms.
Breakfast having been partaken of in the quaint old room up-stairs, mine host saw no more of his visitor for the rest of the morning. A few customers dropped in from the hamlet, and under the combined influence of strong ale and lusty singing, the company—old Hobb included—got quite merry. Dinner-time came at last, and Christmas cheer was conveyed to the solitary guest above.
More of the villagers put in their appearance during the afternoon, and the babel of tongues in the Saxonford bar waxed somewhat deafening. It is quiet enough up-stairs. As the evening draws on, the merry-makers gather closely round the fire, and one of them—an uncouth figure with restless eyes—relates a weird Jack-o’-lantern tale. Afterwards come more songs, finishing with a right rousing chorus, and then the company leave in a body, to return again later on for still more uproarious merriment. Old Dipping, who is now left alone, steals to the foot of the stairs and listens, inwardly hoping that his visitor has not been disturbed by the confusion and noise which for the past two hours have gone on beneath him. He does not wait there long. The sound of a door opening is heard, and then an excited voice shouts from above: ‘Landlord!’
‘He must be in a temper,’ thinks old Hobb, as he slowly toils up the staircase and enters his visitor’s dining apartment.
The lieutenant’s eye is wild and his manner strange. He motions to Dipping to shut the door.
‘I’m sorry, sir’—— begins the landlord apologetically.
‘Sorry! What for?’ interrupts Reginald. ‘Look at that! Do you mean to tell me you are sorry, now?’
On the table was the black box!
Old Dipping could only stand and gape. ‘Where did you find it, sir?’ he at length falters out.
‘Find it!’ answers his excited guest ‘Why, under that loose board by the window! I’ve been searching here all day long with scarcely a hope of turning anything up. What a lottery life is!—Get me a knife, a hammer, anything that will wrench the lid off. Quick, man, quick!’
Old Dipping disappeared and shortly returned with a chisel, that being the only article he could find which was in any way likely to suit his visitor’s requirements. Seizing upon it, Ainslie endeavoured to force the lid off the mysterious box. His efforts are for some minutes paralysed by his own precipitate violence, and old Hobb groans impatiently. At length the fastenings can resist no longer; hinges and locks give way, and the lid flies off, disclosing to view a quantity of time-coloured papers and parchments. Beneath these, at the bottom of the box, is a coarse canvas bag, which on being opened is found to contain about a score of guineas in gold. These the lieutenant tosses aside, much to the surprise of Hobb Dipping, who looks upon ready-money as being far more valuable than any papers could possibly be. Various documents are one by one read and laid aside. Many of them appear to be letters of correspondence from persons of rank, and the greater portion are expressed in language which is enigmatical to Ainslie, but which he rightly conjectures as relating to the Jacobite plots in which his scheming uncle had been engaged. Not the slightest hint can be twisted out of any one that at all refers to the subject upon which our hero had hoped to be enlightened. After all, the discovery appears to be very much like a failure.
‘There—there’s somethin’ in that bag you’ve overlooked, sir,’ nervously remarks the landlord, who has been watching his visitor’s actions with a trembling kind of interest.
‘Ay, so there is.’ And a precious something it turns out to be. At the bottom of the bag which Reginald had so carelessly tossed aside is an old parchment cipher alphabet.
‘Landlord,’ says Ainslie, whose fleeting hopes have once more risen to a fever-heat, ‘this may or may not be—I know not which—the very clue I hoped to find here. Be it so, or be it not, at anyrate this money shall go to you,’ and he thrust it across the table towards the wondering innkeeper.—‘No thanks,’ he added, seeing that old Dipping was about to speak. ‘Leave me alone now. I must be quiet.’
The landlord carefully gathers up the gold and goes out, amazed at such unlooked-for generosity.
‘Now for it!’
At the top of the scrap of paper which Reginald had obtained when he first entered the house was a bold, curious kind of monogram; underneath this were two words, which, on being interpreted by means of the cipher alphabet, read as Number Two. Thus far all was plain sailing; but as our agitated hero proceeded with his task, his heart sank within him, for the meaning of the translation seemed well-nigh as obscure as the document was itself. When the whole of the intricate writing which covered the paper had been followed up letter by letter, it ran in ordinary language in this style:
Read the
Second word of the first line.
Third word of the second line.
Fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth words of the third line.
Seventh and eighth words of the fourth line.
First word of the fifth line.
First, fourth, and seventh words of the sixth line.
Fifth word of the seventh line.
Fourth and fifth words of the eighth line.
First and sixth words of the ninth line.
Second and third words of the tenth line.
Tenth word of the eleventh line.
First, second, and seventh words of the twelfth line.
Fourth, sixth, and seventh words of the thirteenth line.
Third word of the fourteenth line.
Second, sixth, and seventh words of the fifteenth line.
Sixth and seventh words of the sixteenth line.
Sixth, seventh, and eighth words of the seventeenth line.
Seventh word of the eighteenth line.
Second and sixth words of the nineteenth line.
First, second, and sixth words of the twentieth line.
Fifth word of the twenty-first line.
Eighth, ninth, tenth, and eleventh words of the twenty-second line.
Sixth and seventh words of the twenty-third line.
Second word of the twenty-fifth line.
Carnaby Vincent.
These incomprehensible lines would have the effect of reducing the feelings of most persons to a depth of sickening disappointment. But Reginald was not to be beaten so easily. A moment’s reflection convinced him that this singular table could only be the key to some letter or paper which had contained an important secret. Important it must have been, else why should such scrupulous care have been taken to effect its concealment?
What sudden half-formed thought is that which shoots across Ainslie’s mind as he gazes on the monogram at the top of the paper? Quickly unfastening the breast of his coat, the young officer takes therefrom a strongly bound pocket-book, and opening it in the same hasty manner, draws forth from among a miscellaneous collection of papers the identical letter which Sir Carnaby had intrusted on the night of his death to his servant Derrick’s charge.
By this letter hangs a tale. When Derrick, while still lingering in the neighbourhood of the Saxonford Arms, was informed of Sir Carnaby’s death by a labourer who had heard the facts from the mouth of old Dipping himself, he resolved that, since he could no longer help his master, he would at least execute his last commands. In this, however, he was providentially disappointed. On arriving at the Grange, after a long and wearisome ride, he received the startling news that Captain Hollis—to whom he should have delivered the note—had been that morning arrested on a charge of high-treason. Completely foiled in his well-meant endeavours, Derrick now thought only of his own safety. Sir Henry Ainslie’s country-seat on the borders of Suffolk, he chose to be his next destination; and thither the attendant went, intending to acquaint his unfortunate master’s relatives of the catastrophe which had occurred. The journey was not accomplished without grievous difficulty, due in a great measure to his wounded arm. A low lingering fever followed immediately upon his arrival at the Hall; and when Derrick at length recovered sufficiently to have some sense of his situation, Sir Henry Ainslie was lying under the sod, having died while in the act of imparting to his wife a secret of which he was the sole remaining possessor. The attendant’s sad tale was briefly told; but neither that nor the singular letter which he delivered, threw a spark of additional information upon the subject. Notwithstanding this, the peculiar character of Sir Carnaby’s epistle warranted its being preserved; while, as Reginald grew towards manhood, and laid Derrick’s tale more and more to heart, he not unfrequently carried his uncle’s letter about with him, vaguely hoping that some clue might turn up which would eventually solve the mystery. This was his object in bringing it on the present occasion; and now he sits eagerly comparing the translated document with the letter which he had kept for so many years. The contents of the latter ran as follows:
Dear Sir—
My son Harry informs me that your
wager on my horse is taken. I have had
much bad health lately, and have been forced
to keep my bed. I have not seen your nag
run in consequence, but hope to have the
pleasure soon. Squire Norris left us yesterday;
he only offered one hundred against Martin’s
thousand; but Martin was too deep for that,
and in the end the bet fell through. My wine
is in a bad state just now, for the cellar is all
under water. I regret purchasing this house,
instead of the Hall, though I dare say the
latter is not half so good. I do not think we
shall return to the Grange, but shall know
before long; if so, I trust you will come and
stay there. Hunters are hard to get; it seems
is if they were all going out of the county.
The Meet saw nothing of me for some time
after that accident I had, and Warton was
greatly in want of help. My arm is better
now; but I shall not be able to use it for
some time. Remember to deliver our good
wishes to the parson; may he never
have cause to regret his choice.—Your sincere
C. V. Morton.
This very ordinary specimen of letter-writing was headed by a monogram similar to that which Ainslie had noticed on the scrap of paper, coupled with the words Number One. Many speculations had been made as to what these hieroglyphics might refer to, but up to the present moment their meaning has remained unsolved. Will they be solved now? Can there be any connection between the letter Derrick had failed to deliver and this incomprehensible document marked Number Two? What does the interpretation of the latter say?
Read the
Second word of the first line.
Third word of the second line.
Fifth, sixth, &c. words of the third line.
Instinctively following these directions, Reginald applied them to his unfortunate uncle’s letter, and produced therefrom, to his surprise and delight, the sentence—‘Sir Harry is taken.’
The meaning of this was obvious. Reginald’s father, Sir Henry Ainslie, was known in his lifetime among a circle of Jacobite acquaintances as plain ‘Sir Harry,’ and the writer had evidently been alluding to his apprehension in 1745.
Reginald pursued the method with as much deliberation as the excited state of his feelings at the moment would admit of; and by means of underlining such words as the key mentions, soon extracted the pith from Sir Carnaby’s letter:
Sir Harry is taken. I have been forced to run, but have left one hundred thousand deep in the cellar under Waterhouse Hall. I dare not return, but shall trust you to get it out. Meet me after that, and help to use it for our good cause.
He had found the Missing Clue at last! Sir Carnaby’s scheme was as clear as open daylight. The spell of this intricate labyrinth, which the plotting baronet had formed to protect his secret message, had been dissolved as if by the wave of an enchanter’s wand.
Roused to action by his discovery, and burning to know the truth of it without delay, Ainslie at once descended to the room below, and communicated to Hobb Dipping his intention of starting early the next morning.
The whole story was plain to the young soldier. Sir Carnaby Vincent, whose adherent loyalty to the House of Stuart greatly resembled that of many of his Cavalier forefathers, had determined, like a true subject, to expend his wealth in prospering the beloved cause. For this purpose, the young baronet had combined the money he had raised with that of Sir Henry Ainslie, and secreted the whole amount in a small country-house known as ‘Waterhouse Hall,’ there to remain until a favourable opportunity should present itself for using it according to their wishes. The explosion of the Jacobite plot, however, occurred before any measures could be taken for the removal of the money, and Sir Carnaby in his flight was obliged to have recourse to Captain Hollis, an intimate friend, and an ardent participator in his schemes against the government. It was customary among these as among other plotters in state affairs, to communicate with each other in what is termed cipher; and here at last Reginald was in possession of the key to the letter he had carried about for so many years. Most fortunately, as it happened, Waterhouse Hall—the only piece of property which Sir Carnaby had not parted with or mortgaged, but which he had reserved mainly for the purpose mentioned—escaped any official sequestration after the baronet’s death, so that his sister Lady Ainslie, to whom it reverted, was able to take possession of this solitary remnant of the family estates, which eventually became her home.
Next morning, Reginald left the Saxonford Arms, starting at dawn, and checking not his horse’s stride until he beheld before him the towers and pinnacles of Fridswold Minster.
As the dissected parts of a puzzle are put together piece by piece, so has this mystery been worked out until one part only remains to be added before we bid adieu to the reader.
Sir Carnaby’s ‘hundred thousand’ had not left the cellar in which it had been deposited fifteen long years before; but so deep down was it, that considerable perseverance had to be expended in bringing this precious sum to light. He was now able to fulfil the conditions which had hitherto prevented him from claiming Amy Thorpe as his own; and the stern old colonel, before many years had passed, was content to find his happiness in that of his daughter and her husband, and among the sturdy little grandchildren that clustered on his knees and clung about his neck. Lieutenant Ainslie left the army and took to politics; and ere long it was rumoured in the county that his loyalty and services to his party were to be rewarded by the removal of the old attainder, and the restoration of his family title. He was shortly thereafter spoken of as Sir Reginald, and no one grudged him the restoration of the ancient and honourable title of his family.