Lord Edward's Mysterious Treasure

by Lillian Marek

  “Who knows? If your ancestors fancied furniture like that secretary, they might have made hidey-holes all over the place.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  On the third day of the search, they reached the paneled room.

  It was an odd room, Marguerite thought—not terribly wide, but long, with a curved recess at the far end. The only windows were there, on the sides of the recess. Something had been torn from the wall between the windows. The scars were still visible.

  In the rest of the room, the paneling went about halfway up the walls. Above there were pilasters that led to arches across the ceiling. The ceiling had been painted in panels between the arches and with a large painting covering the center, but decades of grime made it impossible to see what the subject matter might have been.

  The paneling must have once been enchanting. Underneath the dust and dirt, the wood had been painted white with the decorative carvings picked out in gilt. But with only the two windows at the far end to let in light, the room would still have been dark. It must have required masses of candles even in the middle of the day.

  They all looked around, slightly confused. No, she realized. Not all of them. Ned was standing there with a look of satisfaction.

  “The chapel,” he said. “This must have been the chapel. You can see there.” He pointed at the damaged wall. “That would be where the altar was. It was probably destroyed during the Revolution.”

  “They had their own chapel?” Marguerite couldn’t quite imagine it.

  “Of course we did,” Delphine said. “You could hardly expect us to travel down to the village.” She looked around with an air of pride.

  Marguerite did not like the way Delphine was saying we, as if she had actually attended Mass here.

  Tony also looked all around the room, but with less enthusiasm. Arms akimbo, he glared at the walls. “Damned rosettes. They’re all over the place. It will take forever to examine them all.”

  “Well, the sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll finish,” Ned said. Marguerite feared he was getting a bit irritable himself. Trying to work with Tony and Delphine could have that effect. Ned had managed to avoid much of the earlier searching by shutting himself up with his documents.

  Then also, the day before had been frustrating, not just because they’d found nothing—or at least nothing of importance—but because Tony had been the only one who knew how to examine the cabinet. She and Ned could only watch. Today, however, Ned was taking charge.

  “But look at it!” Tony waved an angry hand at the pilasters, each one with rosettes at the top. “The ceiling must be twenty feet high. How are we going to manage?”

  “Be sensible, Antoine,” Marguerite said. “It is most unlikely that the priest had a ladder with him. If he hid anything in here, it must be somewhere that was within his reach, and so will be within ours.”

  “I suppose so.” Tony still sounded grumpy, but resigned.

  This must be the room Ned had been thinking of when he first fastened on the idea of the brooch and its design as a clue. He seemed on edge, more focused than he had been the past few days. “We need to do this systematically,” he said. “Each one of us will take one wall. Examine every rosette you find, large or small. See if it pulls out or turns. Try pushing it in, and not just from the middle. Try each petal.”

  “That will take forever,” Tony muttered.

  Ned turned on him. “You are the one who wanted to embark on this search. You are the one who decided it was vitally important to you. You are the one who asked for help. You…”

  Tony put up his hands in surrender. “You’re right, you’re perfectly right, and I apologize.” He offered a shamefaced grin. “And I actually am grateful for your help, even if I don’t sound it.”

  Ned responded by clapping a hand on Tony’s shoulder. Then he noticed Delphine standing in the middle of the room, smiling dreamily and hugging herself. “You too, Delphine. Don’t just stand there. Get started.”

  A bit high-handed, but then he is an aristocrat. Marguerite smiled as she headed for her assigned corner. Not so long ago—less than a week ago—she would have thought of the word aristocrat with a sneer. Now she was thinking of it as just a rather adorable foible, at least when applied to Ned.

  They worked more or less in silence for the next hour. From time to time Marguerite could hear Tony crooning to the rosettes rather the way he had crooned to the cabinet the day before.

  “Come, my beauty, give up your secrets,” he whispered.

  She met Ned’s eye and they shared a smile.

  A rhythm established itself. First pull, then turn, left, right. Next push, once in the center, once on each petal. Nothing. On the next one. Pull, turn left, turn right, push, move on and pull, turn left, turn right, click.

  She froze.

  Click? Yes, click. She had definitely heard a click.

  She pulled back and looked. There was a distinct line, a space, at the side of the panel. She was sure it had not been there before.

  Running her finger gently over it, she could feel that the panel was no longer flush against its neighbor.

  “Ned?” she called, except that her voice was barely a whisper. She swallowed and tried again. “Ned?”

  This time he heard her. Something must have shown in her face because he was at her side in an instant.

  “There was a click,” she said. “Then there was this.” Her finger traced the crack in the paneling.

  She could hear his sharp intake of breath.

  Tony and then Delphine noticed and hurried to join them.

  Horace’s voice broke in on them. “Mlle. Benda, he says it is very important.”

  “Not now, for God’s sake,” Tony snapped. “Go away!”

  “But he says…”

  “Truly, Horace, this is not the time for your interruptions.” Delphine’s imperious tones should have been enough to drive anyone away, but none of the three turned to see if she had been obeyed. They were all focused on the opening, the very slight opening, at the side of the panel.

  “Truly, milor’, I must speak with you.”

  The speaker sounded distressed enough for Ned to swing around and see that it was Seznec, the pharmacist, who was invading.

  “Not now.” Ned sounded as snappish as Tony. He returned his attention to Marguerite. “What, precisely did you do?”

  “Here.” She put her fingers on the rosette and turned it to the right. Again the click came, and she could see the panel bounce out slightly. Ned caught the edge before it could fall back into place.

  Seznec had not gone away. “I must speak with you,” he insisted, striding across the room.

  Marguerite turned to offer him a quick smile to placate him. “Truly, Monsieur, this is not a good time. You must wait.”

  “You don’t understand, Mademoiselle,” he said, his annoyance increasing. “I have identified…” He broke off and stared as Ned pulled the panel open to reveal a space several feet high and wide. Within was a cloth-wrapped bundle.

  They all stared at it in silence. Not even their breathing could be heard.

  At length, Ned stepped back and gestured at the opening. “Tony, perhaps you would…?”

  Taking a deep breath, Tony licked his lips, nodded, and stepped forward. He put his hands on either side of the bundle and lifted slightly to test its weight. He glanced back. “A table. Is there a table…?”

  This was the kind of task Horace was accustomed to. He had been hovering on the edge of the group uncertainly, but hurried and snatched up a small but sturdy table. Setting it down at Tony’s side, he stepped back with an air of accomplishment. He almost bumped into M. Seznec, who did not seem to know what to do but refused to leave and continued to watch the proceedings, mesmerized.

  Tony picked up the bundle and set it carefully in the middle of the table. Although the thing had an irregular shape, it seemed to have a flat bottom and rested steadily on the table. His fingers trembled as he began to lift off the cloth wrap
pings. Dust fell from the stiff fabric, some sort of heavy brocade, dingy with age.

  As the wrappings unfolded, a glint appeared, drawing a gasp of excitement from Delphine, who moved closer. Her eyes gleamed. “Gold,” she breathed.

  But Tony frowned as he removed the rest of the cloth.

  “Not gold. Not really,” he said and stepped back.

  What stood revealed was a bust, carved none too artistically from wood, dried out and cracked in places. It was covered with gold leaf and studded with colored stones.

  Marguerite could not tear her eyes from it. Nor could she speak. It did not matter that this was no great work of art. Something about it overwhelmed her. She clutched at Ned’s arm in an effort to remain on her feet.

  “But it is ugly.” Delphine’s angry complaint seemed to come from a great distance. “This isn’t a treasure.”

  For once, Marguerite ignored her completely.

  It was M. Seznec who captured everyone’s attention. Slow steps carried him close to the carving. He abruptly fell to his knees and blessed himself. “Mon dieu, is this possible? Is it truly Saint Mael?” he whispered.

  “What do you mean, is it Saint Mael?” demanded Tony impatiently. “What is this thing?”

  “I never saw it myself, but I have often heard it described,” Seznec said, staring at it in amazement. “It is the Treasure of Morvan. It was not destroyed after all.”

  “It’s a reliquary, very old,” Ned said, “made to contain the relic of a saint. One of the saint’s bones, or sometimes a bit of cloth belonging to the saint.”

  “What?” Tony sounded furious. “You mean that old man has had us wasting our time on a bit of superstitious nonsense? I can’t believe it.”

  “No!” cried Delphine. “No, this is not possible. I will not have it. I will not be cheated like this.” She ran over and swung an arm to sweep the reliquary off the table.

  With a cry, Marguerite reached out to stop her, but Seznec was faster. On his feet again, he caught Delphine’s arm and pushed her away. “How dare you,” he began, but stopped himself. Turning to Marguerite and Ned, he said, “I apologize, but I could not let the young woman damage it. Not when Abbé Seznec gave his life to protect it all those years ago.”

  “A relative, I assume?” Ned asked.

  Seznec tilted his head up proudly. “One of whom we are most proud. We knew he was martyred by the barbarians who called themselves Frenchmen, but we did not know he had succeeded in hiding Saint Mael. How did you find him?”

  It was Marguerite’s turn to smile. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the brooch. “Abbé Seznec gave this to my great-grandmother. She did not know what it meant, but it has been passed down from daughter to daughter and it has protected us, I think. Now it can be restored to its proper place.”

  She inserted it into the hollow at the center of the collar that circled the carving. It fit perfectly.

  Ned put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned against him as they silently drank in the sight. “All these centuries it has survived,” he said.

  “All these centuries,” Seznec echoed softly.

  Tony was less impressed. “Well, I suppose we need to let the old man know we’ve found it. If this is what he was talking about.” He snorted in disgust. “What a waste of effort. And that fool of a doctor probably won’t let us see him until morning.” He stamped out of the room.

  Delphine was even less impressed. “It is not fair!” She stomped her foot. “It was supposed to be a treasure—gold, jewels. A fortune. It would make all of this beautiful again.” Still blocked by Seznec from venting her disappointment on the carving, she uttered a cry of rage and fled from the room.

  Marguerite felt herself sag as the weight of responsibility returned to her shoulders. She started to follow Delphine, but Ned tightened his arm around her.

  “Let her go,” he said. “Let her have her tantrum. It won’t hurt her.”

  She should protest, she knew. She ought to follow, but she wanted to stay right here, with Ned’s arm around her. Then she noticed Horace, still standing there uncertainly, and called to him.

  He nodded, as if relieved to have something to do. “I’ll follow and watch over her. Just like your father said I should.”

  “See? There will be no problem,” Ned said.

  “Problem. Yes.” Seznec turned away from his contemplation of the reliquary and regarded them with a worried air. “I came here to tell you what I found, what I suspect.”

  Of course he had. And it would not be good. Marguerite tensed herself.

  Ned lost his smile, though he did not remove his arm. “Yes, of course. We should, perhaps, find someplace to sit down.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The place they found was a small antechamber where a number of pieces of furniture had been pushed out of the way. Ned pulled off dusty covers to find a pair of low-armed settees covered in tapestry. Even without the covers, they were dusty, but Ned was not about to worry about that. He just wanted to get Marguerite seated before she keeled over. She had turned pale—a ghastly pale—at Seznec’s words.

  Ned sat down beside her and took her icy hand in his and chafed it in an effort to restore some warmth to her. They waited for Seznec to begin.

  “You must forgive me,” the young pharmacist said as he sat across from them, running nervous fingers through his hair, as oblivious to the dust as they. “Your discovery, your miraculous discovery, made me forget the reason I came today. And I forgot as well that what I have learned may distress you.”

  With an air of determination, he looked Ned full in the face. “I needed to find a way to determine if there was anything wrong with the tonic. I caught a pair of mice.” He paused. “Two, you see, in case one was already ill. I gave them a few spoonfuls of the tonic. Both died.”

  Marguerite’s hand clenched Ned’s, but she did not speak.

  Seznec continued. “As I told you when you came to my shop, I do not have a true laboratory here, not the kind you might find in Paris. I used the Marsh test for arsenic, which would have fit the symptoms you described, but that test was negative. Then I noticed that there was a grainy feel to the tonic. That should not have been.”

  Ned wished the pharmacist would hurry up and get to the point. His impatience must have showed, because Seznec shook his head. “I will not trouble you with the things I tried, but eventually I sieved out some small seeds that looked familiar. They had an odd, irregular shape. I checked with one of the farmers, and he confirmed it. It was agrostemme—Agrostemma githago.” He peered at Ned. “I think in England you call this corn cockle.”

  Ned shook his head. “I am not a farmer. I know very little of plants.” He looked at Marguerite, who also shook her head. With a musician for a father, she had always lived in cities. What would she know of gardens?

  “No matter,” said Seznec. “It is a common plant that often grows in fields of grain. There have been occasions when its seeds have contaminated flour, usually in such small quantity that little or no harm is done. But when I was a student at the Hôtel-Dieu in Paris there was a case where a small boy died from these seeds. As you can imagine, this impressed me greatly, and I remembered it when I saw the seeds again.”

  Marguerite was shaking her head. “But you said this plant grows in grain fields. We have no grain fields growing near the chateau. How could this happen?”

  “Ah, there is the question,” Seznec said. “For the seeds to land in the wheat, this is a tragic but understandable accident. For the seeds to end up in Dr. Fernac’s tonic—I do not see how this can be an accident.” He sat there with his hands on his knees and a stern expression on his face.

  Marguerite did not seem to be listening to him. She was still shaking her head and speaking softly to herself. “How could she know?”

  Her question drew the pharmacist’s attention, and it looked as if he was about to ask for an explanation when Ned interrupted. “This is a common plant, you say. Have there been other cases
in other places?”

  “Ah yes. But almost never fatal, and probably often not even noticed.”

  “And it also grows in England?” Ned persisted.

  “Assuredly. It is common everywhere, and has an attractive flower.” Seznec’s stern expression relaxed. “Children often gather bouquets of it. One touches it with no harm.”

  “Children…” Marguerite’s murmur drew Ned’s attention, but she was looking off into the distance.

  He turned back to Seznec. “You said the seeds are an odd shape?”

  “Yes. Here, let me show you.” The pharmacist reached into a pocket and withdrew a small envelope. He opened it to display a dozen or so small seeds, twisted so that they looked almost like tiny seashells. “Touch them.”

  Ned did so, paying close attention and noting that they seemed to be covered with tiny prickles. “Yes. I will recognize them if I ever see them again.”

  “Good. And if you see them, you should destroy them. Meanwhile, if there is any more of Dr. Fernac’s tonic in the chateau, it must be poured away and the bottle sterilized. You will see to this?” He looked from Ned to Marguerite and back again.

  Marguerite was still lost in her thoughts, so it was Ned who assured the pharmacist that the matter would be taken care of. “And we can promise you that there will be no more accidental problems.”

  Ned and Seznec exchanged measuring looks. The pharmacist gave a short nod. “Good.” Then he smiled. “And now, if you will excuse me, I must return to the village and let everyone know that the Treasure of Morvan has been found. You can have no idea what this will mean to us. No idea.”

  Marguerite felt cold. She could not believe how cold she felt. It was as if she had fallen into a place where all was ice. She was not even sure she could move—she might be frozen in place. She heard M. Seznec leaving, but she could not seem to turn her head to look at him.

  With a sudden rush of determination, she pushed herself to her feet. She had to escape these rooms haunted by a dead past. She had to get outside. She needed to be alone. Half running, she almost tripped over the discarded covers, but she recovered. Her cloak was in the next room and she snatched it up as she ran past and down the stairs.