“Very well,” said she, “let us consider. There are three chests, one for you, one for me and one for them. What do you say to that?”
Fittleworth, though secretly approving, was disposed to adopt the cantankerous attitude of a trustee or adviser; but Katharine saw through him at once.
“I’m glad you agree with me,” she said, ignoring his protests. “We shall enjoy our windfall so much more if we’re not greedy. So that’s settled. And I think I hear Rachel coming.”
A moment later the handmaid entered to announce that Mr. Furse and his friends were ready to see them, and they adjourned, forthwith, to the bedroom above.
“I hope,” said Katharine, as they entered, “that the doctor has given a favourable report, and that you are in less pain now, Mr. Simpson.”
“Thank you,” was the reply, “I am quite comfortable now. It seems that it was only a severe sprain, after all.”
Katharine congratulated him on his escape, and Mr. Furse—or Warren—then opened the business with characteristic briskness.
“Now, sir, my friend, Pedley, late Simpson, is quite agreeable to our handing over the box and contents on the terms mentioned, which, however, must include immunity from any proceedings in respect of the picture.”
“So far as I am concerned,” said Fittleworth, “I agree, although such an agreement is quite illegal, as you know. But the arrangement is between ourselves and need go no farther.”
“Quite so,” said Warren. “But, does anyone besides Miss Hyde know that you were on our track?”
“No. We acted quite secretly, and as the picture has been restored, no action is likely to be taken by the authorities.”
“Then in that case,” said Warren, “and as you agree to our terms, I will hand the property to Miss Hyde, and will let you have an account of our expenses later.”
With this he produced from his pocket a small paper packet, and, opening it, displayed a small, plain, gold box, somewhat like an exceedingly flat cigar case, which he handed to Katharine.
“The paper,” said he, “is inside; and I may say, madam, that I believe you will find it an exceedingly interesting document.”
Katharine, having thanked him, opened the little box and took from it a sheet of very thin paper, folded twice, and covered with writing of an antiquated style and very pale and faded. Opening the paper, she ran her eye quickly the writing, and then handed the document to Fittleworth. “Perhaps you had better read it aloud,” said she. Fittleworth took the paper and examined it curiously. One side of it was occupied by what seemed to be a list or schedule; the document proper occupied the other, and it was with this that Fittleworth began:
“James, by the Grace of God, King of England, Scotland, France and Ireland, unto our trusty and well-beloved Andreas Hide and all other such persons as may be concerned with these presents. Whereas the saide Andreas Hide hath on sundry occasions contributed divers sums of money for our use and service Now We do convey to the saide Andreas Our portion of the treasure which Captain Sir William Phips of New England did lift from the Spanish wracke at Hispaniola the saide share being of the value of thirty thousand pounds sterling as sett forth in the accompt on the backe hereof to be disposed of in manner following namely the saide treasure to be secured by the saide Andreas Hide in some safe and secret place to be held intact for Our use as occasion may require while the present troubles continue and soe to be held if need bee during Our life and that of Our Son James Prince of Wales to be faithfully rendered up to Us or to the saide Prince upon Our or his demand as Our or his necessities may require but upon Our death and that of the saide Prince the saide Treasure to revert absolutely and become the sole property of the saide Andreas Hide or the heirs of his body.
“Given under Our hand at Our Palace of White Hall on the twentieth day of September in the Year of our Lord God 1688.
“JAMES R.”
As Fittleworth finished reading, he glanced significantly at Katharine, and Mr. Warren gave an approving nod. “So you see, Miss Hyde,” said the latter, “there is no question of treasure trove. This is your own property, if you know where to find it. I need not say that if we had known of your existence, we would have notified you. Rather foolishly, we assumed that there were no heirs in existence—that the family was derelict, and, of course, the good old laws of treasure trove don’t appeal much to an American.”
“Naturally,” said Katharine. “May we see what’s on the other side?”
Fittleworth turned the paper over and began to read from the inventory on the back:
“Three chests containing the King’s share of Captain Phips’ treasure as follows:
“The first chest containeth,
“Twenty-one bars of golde
“Two large baggs pieces of eight
“Six parcels dust golde
“Three baggs coyned golde
“One bagg two hundred large pearls
“Two baggs unpolished stones (divers).”
At this point Fittleworth paused. “Is it worth while,” he asked, “to go right through the list? We shall have to verify the contents of the chests presently, and we know the total value.”
“Yes,” said Warren, “I guess you’ll find enough to pay our little expenses, with a trifle over. And that reminds me that we should like, if possible, to have the sum—which we will put at two hundred pounds—paid in the actual contents of these chests. It has been quite a little romance for us, and we should like some memento of it.”
Katharine glanced significantly at Fittleworth, who then said: “I understand that Miss Hyde wishes you to consider yourselves as partners in this enterprise, and to take a substantial share of the treasure—”
“A third,” said Katharine, “if you think that’s fair.”
“Fair!” exclaimed Warren. “It’s a great deal more than fair, it’s exceedingly handsome; but I really don’t—”
“You see,” interrupted Katharine, “you are really the discoverers, and it would seem such a tame ending to your little romance if you only took away a few trifles.”
Warren was about to protest, but Katharine continued: “We shall be very unhappy if you don’t take a fair share. Remember, we should never have known anything about it but for your cleverness, and the daring way in which you borrowed that picture. Come, Mr. Warren, I will make a condition; you shall tell us how you did it, and then help us to get the chests out.”
To these not very onerous conditions the three Americans agreed after some further protests and consultation between themselves, and Simpson, or rather, Pedley, then asked: “I suppose the chests are stowed in that place at the bottom of the shaft?”
“No, they’re not,” replied Fittleworth. “They’re less than half-way down; but I hope you’ll be able to be present when they’re lifted, which is the next business that we have to consider, and a rather troublesome business it will be, I expect.”
The business, however, turned out to be less troublesome than Fittleworth had anticipated, for the three enterprising American gentlemen, having read the inventory, and knowing the nature of the treasure, had already provided themselves with the appliances necessary for dealing with the ponderous chests.
These appliances, consisting of a powerful tackle, a set of chain slings, some wooden rollers, and one or two crowbars, were stored at their hotel, from whence Warren and Bell proceeded to fetch them without delay. Then Pedley, with his foot in a splint, was carried down to the Chancellor’s Parlour, and, the door being bolted, salvage operations began forthwith. The tackle was hooked on to the great bronze chain that suspended the cupboard, and the chests, one by one, secured in the slings, were dragged on rollers to the opening into the shalt, and finally hoisted up to the floor of the parlour.
The old room had doubtless looked on many a strange scene, but on none stranger than that which was revealed by the light of the hanging lamp and the candles that burned in the old silver candlesticks. The three chests, wrenched open, despite their massive locks
, by vigorously-wielded crowbars, stood empty in a corner, and the five conspirators, seated round the ancient draw-table, gazed upon a treasure that made even its sturdy legs creak protestingly. Bars of gold—dull, soapy, and worthless in aspect—bags of gold dust, uncut gems and antiquated coins, lay cheek by jowl, with heaps of rings, trinkets, and ornaments of a suspiciously ecclesiastical character. At the head of the table Katharine sat, with the inventory before her, checking the items as they were called out by Fittleworth, with the impressive manner of an auctioneer. It was late at night before the ceremony was concluded; by which time the spoil, divided into three approximately equal portions, had been returned to the chests, of which one, allocated to the three adventurers, was duly marked and secured with the chain slings, ready for removal.
“There is one thing,” said Fittleworth, “that I should like to know before we part. I can see pretty well how you got on the track of the treasure, but I cannot see how you ascertained which of the stretchers contained the gold box. I noticed that the canvas had been unfastened only at the one end, so you must either have known beforehand, or made a lucky guess.”
Warren laughed complacently. “We Americans are a progressive people,” said he, “and we have a way of applying recent scientific knowledge to useful ends. We didn’t know beforehand where that gold box was, and we didn’t have to make a shot. We just took the picture, in its case, round to an electrical instrument maker’s, and got him to pass the X-rays through it, while we looked at it through a fluorescent screen. We couldn’t see much of the picture, but we could see the gold box plain enough, so we just made a pencil mark over the spot on the paper in which the case was wrapped. Is there anything more you would like to know?”
“If it wouldn’t seem inquisitive,” said Fittleworth, “I think we should like to know with whom we have had the pleasure of sharing the plunder.”
Warren rubbed his chin, and cast a comical look of inquiry at his two friends; then, having received an assenting nod from each of them, he replied: “We are sharing one or two secrets already, sir, and if I mention that one of us is a Professor of History at a well-known university in the United States and that the other two of us are respectively Professor of European Architecture at the same academic institution and Conservator of a famous Museum, why, then, we shall share one secret more.”
Three days later there arrived at the Captain Digby, where Fittleworth was staying, a letter from the Director asking him to withdraw his resignation. It was a gratifying circumstance, and he hastened to communicate it to Katharine. But in the meantime she had also received a letter—from her tenant, Mrs. Matthews—asking to be allowed to determine the tenancy in a month’s time. Katharine read her letter to Fittleworth, and then, laying it down, asked somewhat abstractedly:
“Didn’t you once say, Joe, that you would like to live in this old house yourself?”
“I did,” he replied, “and I repeat it most emphatically.”
“Then,” said Katharine, “Sir John will have to accept your resignation.”
THE BRONZE PARROT (1918)
The Reverend Deodatus Jawley had just sat down to the gate-legged table on which lunch was spread and had knocked his knee, according to his invariable custom, against the sharp corner of the seventh leg.
“I wish you would endeavour to be more careful, Mr. Jawley,” said the rector’s wife. “You nearly upset the mustard-pot and these jars are exceedingly bad for the leg.”
“Oh, that’s of no consequence, Mrs. Bodley,” the curate replied cheerfully.
“I don’t agree with you at all,” was the stiff rejoinder.
“It doesn’t matter, you know, so long as the skin isn’t broken,” Mr. Jawley persisted with an ingratiating smile.
“I was referring to the leg of the table,” Mrs. Bodley corrected, frostily.
“Oh, I beg your pardon!” said the curate; and, blushing like a Dublin Bay prawn, he abandoned himself in silence to the consideration of the numerical ratios suggested by five mutton chops and three prospective consumers. The problem thus presented was one of deep interest to Mr. Jawley, who had a remarkably fine appetite for such an exceedingly small man, and he awaited its solution with misgivings born of previous disappointments.
“I hope you are not very hungry, Mr. Jawley,” said the rector’s wife.
“Er—no—er—not unusually so,” was the curate’s suave and casuistical reply. The fact is that he was always hungry, excepting after the monthly tea-meetings.
“Because,” pursued Mrs. Bodley, “I see that Walker has only cooked five chops; and yours looks rather a small one.”
“Oh, it will be quite sufficient, thank you,” Mr. Jawley hastened to declare; adding, a little unfortunately perhaps: “Amply sufficient for any moderate and temperate person.”
The Reverend Augustus Bodley emerged from behind the Church Times and directed a suspicious glance at his curate; who, becoming suddenly conscious of the ambiguity of his last remark, blushed crimson and cut himself a colossal slice of bread. There was an uncomfortable silence which lasted some minutes, and was eventually broken by Mrs. Bodley.
“I want you to go into Dilbury this afternoon, Mr. Jawley, and execute a few little commissions.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Bodley. With pleasure,” said the curate.
“I want you to call and see if Miss Gosse has finished my hat. If she has, you had better bring it with you. She is so unreliable and I want to wear it at the Hawley-Jones’ garden party tomorrow. If it isn’t finished you must wait until it is. Don’t come away without it.”
“No, Mrs. Bodley, I will not. I will be extremely firm.”
“Mind you are. Then I want you to go to Minikin’s and get two reels of whitey-brown thread, four balls of crochet cotton and eight yards of lace insertion—the same kind as I had last week. And Walker tells me that she has run out of black lead. You had better bring two packets; and mind you don’t put them in the same pocket with the lace insertion. Oh, and as you are going to the oil-shop, you may as well bring a jar of mixed pickles. And then you are to go to Dumsole’s and order a fresh haddock—perhaps you could bring that with you, too—and then to Barker’s and tell them to send four pounds of dessert pears, and be sure they are good ones and not over-ripe. You had better select them and see them weighed yourself.”
“I will. I will select them most carefully,” said the curate, inwardly resolving not to trust to mere external appearances, which are often deceptive.
“Oh, and by the way, Jawley,” said the rector, “as you are going into the town, you might as well take my shooting boots with you, and tell Crummell to put a small patch on the soles and set up the heels. It won’t take him long. Perhaps he can get them done in time for you to bring them back with you. Ask him to try.”
I will, Mr. Bodley,” said the curate. “I will urge him to make an effort.”
“And as you are going to Crummell’s,” said Mrs. Bodley, “I will give you my walking shoes to take to him. They want soling and heeling; and tell him he is to use better leather than he did last time.”
Half an hour later Mr. Jawley passed through the playground appertaining to the select boarding-academy maintained by the Reverend Augustus Bodley. He carried a large and unshapely newspaper parcel, despite which he walked with the springy gait of a released schoolboy. As he danced across the desert expanse, his attention was arrested by a small crowd of the pupils gathered significantly around two larger boys whose attitudes suggested warlike intentions; indeed, even as he stopped to observe them, one warrior delivered a tremendous blow which expended itself on the air within a foot of the other combatant’s nose.
“Oh! Fie!” exclaimed the scandalised curate. “Joblett! Joblett! Do you realise that you nearly struck Byles? That you might actually have hurt him?”
“I meant to hurt him,” said Joblett.
“You meant to! Oh, but how wrong! How unkind! Let me beg you—let me entreat you to desist from these discreditable acts of violence.�
�
He stood awhile gazing with an expression of pained disapproval at the combatants, who regarded him with sulky grins. Then, as the hostilities seemed to be—temporarily—suspended, he walked slowly to the gate. He was just pocketing the key when an extremely somnolent pear impinged on the gate-post and sprinkled him with disintegrated fragments. He turned, wiping his coat-skirt with his handkerchief, and addressed the multitude, who all, oddly enough, happened to be looking in the opposite direction.
“That was very naughty of you. Very naughty. Some one must have thrown that pear. I won’t tempt you to prevarication by asking who? But pears don’t fly of themselves—especially sleepy ones.”
With this he went out of the gate, followed by an audible snigger which swelled, as he walked away, into a yell of triumph.
The curate tripped blithely down the village street, clasping his parcel and scattering smiles of concentrated amiability broadcast among the villagers. As he approached the stile that guarded the foot-path to Dilbury, his smile intensified from mere amiability to positive affection. A small lady—a very small lady, in fact—was standing by the stile, resting a disproportionate basket on the lower step; and we may as well admit, at once and without circumlocution, that this lady was none other than Miss Dorcas Shipton and the prospective Mrs. Jawley.
The curate changed over his parcel to hold out a welcoming hand.
“Dorcas, my dear!” he exclaimed. “What a lucky chance that you should happen to come this way!”
It isn’t chance,” the little lady replied. “I heard Mrs. Bodley say that she would ask you to go into Dilbury, so I determined to come and, speed you on your journey” (the distance to Dilbury was about three and a half miles) “and see that you were properly equipped. Why did not you bring your umbrella?”
Mr. Jawley explained that the hat, the boots, the fresh haddock and the mixed pickles would fully occupy his available organs of prehension.
“That is true,” said Dorcas. “But I hope you are wearing your chest protector and those cork soles that I gave you.”
The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others Page 175
