From between the parchment leaves of the heavy book he drew several sheets of paper, which I saw were covered with pencil memoranda in his own handwriting, and these he spread before him to refresh his memory and make certain of his facts.
“From what is written here in old Italian—which, by the way, is not the easiest language to decipher—it seems that Bartholomew, the commander of the Seahorse, was also a Commendatore of the Order of St. Stephen, and a wealthy man who had forsaken the luxuries of ease to fight the Corsairs and release their slaves. Most probably he was owner of the vessel of which his compatriot Paule was second in command. This, however, must be mere conjecture on our part for the present. What is chronicled here is most important, and it was in order to consult you at once that I telegraphed.”
Then he paused, slowly turned over the vellum pages with his thin white hand, glancing for a few moments in silence at his memoranda. He had worked for hours over that crabbed yellow handwriting; indeed, he afterwards confessed to me that he had not been to bed at all, preferring, as a true palaeographist, to decipher the documents in the quiet hours instead of retiring to rest.
“It seems that this Bartholomew da Schorno was an Italian noble who, falling into disgrace with the Grand Duke of Ferrara, sold his estates and came to live in England during Elizabeth’s reign,” he said. “As far as I have yet been able to gather, it appears that he purchased a house and lands at a place called Caldecott. In my gazetteer I find there is a village of that name near Kettering. The main portion of the manuscript consists of a long history of his family and the cause of the quarrel with the Grand Duke, written in a kind of wearisome diary. When, however, he comes to his visit to England, his audience with Queen Elizabeth, and his decision to settle at Caldecott, he reveals himself as a man aggrieved at the treatment he has received in his own country, and yet fond of a life of excitement and adventure. It was the latter, he declares, that after a few years’ residence in England induced him to become a Knight of St. Stephen and to sail the seas in search of the Corsairs in company with ‘the dear friend of his youth, the noble Pompæo a Paule, of Pisa.’ ”
“But the secret,” I said interrupting him.
“As far as I have yet deciphered the manuscript I can discover nothing of it, only the mention that you have seen in the commencement. The book ends abruptly. Perhaps he intended to explain some secret, but was prevented from so doing by the sinking of his ship.”
Such seemed a most likely theory.
“The reason I called you here was to suggest that you should go to this place, Caldecott, and see whether any descendants of this Italian nobleman are still existing. They may possess family papers, and be able to throw some further lights on these documents. The place is near Rockingham and not far from Market Harborough.”
This suggestion did not at that moment appeal to me. We were still too much in the dark.
“Have you read the other document?” I inquired. “I mean the one with the seven signatures and the seal with the leopard.”