“Now—let’s see again—where am I? Yes—let me first finish with the coat. The bullet hole. Yes, you were quite right there, though you got the facts of it wrong. So did I, but then, I never saw the coat till just before I left India, and by then I had all the facts that created the mystery. The hole in the coat itself was faked, by a clever piece of forged invisible mending. You see the bullet-hole in the lining was made when the lining was not a lining at all. That piece of woven cloth, which we thought had come from the Army Clothing Department, had absolutely nothing to do with the Army at all. It was the back portion of a red robe woven without seam from the top to the bottom, and made from a sacred loom in a monastery of Kabul. I have seen that very loom—centuries old—built about eleven hundred or so, I calculated—anyway, it was in full working order at the end of the twelfth century, because that piece of red lining we are so concerned about was made when Richard the Lion-Heart was taken prisoner in Germany—and that—O my ignorant ones of the Sixth Form—was eleven hundred and ninety-two. Go up one, Carnaby Secundus.”
Carnaby looked from Hogarth to me. “You will think, my dear Kent, that I am now going to pose as the hero of one of your sorts of romance, when I tell you that I am the only Englishman who has ever been received as a long-term guest beneath the roof of that ancient monastic house in Kabul. True—I was not accepted there as an Englishman. I was disguised as an exceedingly Holy Man—which, strangely enough, however you may think to the contrary, is a role I find it very easy to get away with. But when I mentioned ‘the only Englishman,’ I purposely did not say ‘white man’ or ‘European,’ because, my masters, during Richard’s Crusade, there was another who beat me to it, and beat me very well, considering he went without disguise and at great danger to his life. I have read the man’s history from manuscripts preserved in the monastic library, and what I read amazed me. I realized that I had stumbled upon one of the most complex characters in history. He was a monk of great learning, fanatical zeal, indomitable courage and exceedingly strong physically. Spiritually—he was apparently a bit of a mixture for those days, for his habit of probing into everything that didn’t concern him—such as the doctrines of Aristotle and Plato—and worse still in the eyes of the Church—a wholehearted study of Devilry. It was said of him that he seemed more interested in the fiends than the angels, considering that they had more power, and took a livelier concern towards Mankind. This made him unpopular with orthodox churchmen, but did not impair his extreme popularity with the Pope himself, so that his influence in Rome was much sought after. He set great store on bodily health; maintaining that virility was a god-like quality, and that carnal cravings should be obeyed as necessary sustenance for health. On this score he refused to fast if he didn’t feel like it. He even had the courage to attack the enforced celibacy of the clergy, but soon found that he was going a bit too far airing such views as, ‘the body is the material form of the spirit, so who are we, in our ignorance, to deny the body what the spirit prompts it to need?’ He is reputed to have said that to the Pope himself.
“He certainly never allowed fastings or penance to interfere with his health, but rather used them, when he felt like it, of course, as a means of hardening his body to fresh exertion. Such a turbulent fellow soon found that work in Rome began to pall. He wanted change and adventure. To satisfy this longing in his favourite, the Pope would send him on foreign missions, and it was in this capacity that he came to England on business concerned with the Third Crusade, where he managed to impress Prince John very much in his favour. That fact becomes important in his subsequent history, for the Regent saw the advantage of having this Italian priest, so popular with the Pope, as his secret agent, especially when the monk told him it was his intention to follow the Crusaders to Palestine. This priest would be just the man who would appeal to his brother the King, who admired physical strength, just as he, John, liked unscrupulous characters. So our Italian was given letters of recommendation to the King, and a promise of as much gold as his activities required from the Prince. And so he goes to Palestine, where his influence was soon felt. He not only became popular with the King because of his feats of strength and bravery in battle, but retained, by letters and messengers, the full confidence of John, who to do him credit, never forgot his services, and rewarded him suitably when he became King. Apparently our friend didn’t think much of the Crusades. Despised the petty quarrels in the armed forces of Christendom. He admired Richard himself, for his almost stupid honesty but more for his strength and chivalry. The French and German princes he laughed at, and was not sorry when he was taken prisoner by Saladin himself. Here was a man after his own heart, and when the great leader offered him his freedom, he begged that he might stay amongst the Moslems and learn what he could of that religion. After much consultations Saladin declared that he and those around him could teach the monk no more, but since he wished to master the full Eastern understanding of the six thousand Koran verses, this generous Sultan of Egypt and Mesopotamia furnished him with an escort, so that he could travel through Persia with introductions to the most learned of the Moslems. Eventually we hear that he crossed into the wild country of Afghanistan, coming to rest in a mountain monastery near Kabul. In this quiet retreat he studied, being shown every consideration by the old Sheik of the Mosque; and here he stayed for two whole years, becoming a Moslem in order that he could visit Mecca on his way back to Rome. I should say, from what I’ve read of him, that this act of conversion to a heathen creed, as it was looked upon, had its root in a curiosity to penetrate the mysteries of Mecca before any other European, and certainly not from any spiritual conviction. He was, of course, fully aware that Rome would condemn him as a heretic, but he comforted himself with the thought that everything would pan out all right. Why should anyone know anything about it? If he found that a too severe attitude would be raised against such an experience, he could keep his mouth shut. And even if anyone did find out—he could fall back on his personal friendship with the Pope—for he never lost the power of dominating, even fascinating people—and was there not England and Prince John? He could always retire there and find good employment. It was only by his persistent begging to make the sacred pilgrimage to Mecca, that the Sheik bloke would allow him to go away; and even then our friend had to swear on the Prophet’s beard that he would return, and pass the rest of his days in their retreat.
“Obviously the Italian scamp had no intention of doing any such thing, since he eventually committed a direct abuse in return for their kindness and hospitality.
“He stole one of the greatest treasures of the Moslem Faith. This priceless relic was a solid gold goblet, heavily encrusted with a band of huge diamonds and rubies. It was reputed to have been the stirrup-cup of Mahomet into which he dropped a pebble as the signal to mount for his historic ride from Medina to conquer Mecca. This is an ancient custom of the desert still practised by many tribes calling the troop to horse. My cousin always used the phrase before setting out on a journey. ‘The stone is in the Cup,’ he used to say. ‘To Horse.’ Let’s get cracking, in fact.
“Now the goblet was only brought out of its reliquary for the Feast following the Fast of Ramadan. It was then locked away till the following year.
“When the wily Italian first cast his eyes on it he thought, ‘There is a fine present to give as a bribe to the Pope. There is not such a chalice in any sacred vessel-chest in Rome.’ Determined to get it, he postponed his departure for Mecca, until Ramadan had passed, knowing that the goblet would not be missed till the following year. For the same safety-first reason he declined the offer of an escort, piously maintaining that a poor pilgrim should not ride like a prince, when he had but recently taken the Koran. This enabled him to take his own route, which he had carefully studied, and thereby avoiding any pursuit, should the theft be discovered sooner than he had anticipated.
“It is said that the Prophet had grasped the cup in his left hand when he had leapt on the back of his golden-coated horse, Al Borak�
��the Lightning. With his right hand he waved Dhu’l Fakar, his trenchant scimitar, and pointing towards Mecca, cried out that he would fill the cup with the blood of their enemies.
“The Italian’s departure was not so dramatic. He rode away slowly upon a mule—slowly because the chalice was very uncomfortable lashed against his stomach beneath his flowing robes.
“For a whole year the blessings of the monastery followed him, until upon the feast day they were changed to curses. It was upon that first anniversary of his possession that he made up his mind not to give the chalice to the Pope. He had become quite attached to it himself, and he found that the Pope rather bored him. Besides, the Holy Father had no job to offer him—at least, no job that was sufficiently exciting. He therefore decided for England and John, now King.
“Here he did well—was extremely popular with the King’s friends, and eventually beneficed to an Abbey.
“But now—what happens behind his back in Kabul? And the answer is—— This is where Hogarth begins to sit up and take interest.”
“My dear fellow,” said Hogarth eagerly, “you mustn’t jump out of the picture. Go on. Go on. I’m absorbed by your mule-riding cup-snatcher.”
“Behind his back,” went on Carnaby, “our Afghan Sheik let fly his most powerful curses after his departed and light-fingered guest. Then he took a number of oaths as to what he would do. The first name he swore by was Fadda, because that was the name of Mahomet’s pet mule. Then the ten wives of the Prophet were cited, each by name, followed by the fifteen concubines—but as he could only remember one of their names, he lumped them together in a good round oath. He swore by Bajura, the Moslem Standard and by Mahomet’s Banner, Sanjaksherif. By Catum, his bow—Fadha, his cuirass (not to be confused with Fadda the Mule)—by Adha, his camel—and Hoia the Cave, in which Gabriel appeared to him from God. I have read an account of this show of temper. It was written down by a scribe who overheard. He found it easy enough to vow what he intended to do—namely, recover the relic and slay the thief—but very difficult to find any practical way of doing it.
“He certainly knew the apostate’s name, but had no idea of his address. Useless to expect help and redress from the Pope, who had no truck with Turks, infidels and heretics. In the darkness only one little ray of light appeared to save him from despair. He had gleaned it from a casual conversation he had indulged in with the convert. ♦
“Following his pilgrimage to Mecca, the Italian had told him he would have to visit his patron, the King of England, before he would be free to return to Kabul. He remembered the exact words, ‘Other than passing my remaining years in peace with you, I should have chosen to retire from the world as Abbot of a certain monastic community I know in England: that is, of course, were I still in the persuasion of the Christian Faith. This Abbot’s seat lies in a beautiful part of the country, on a road known as the Pilgrim’s Way to the English Mecca of Canterbury. This delectable palace belongs to the Archbishop who is seldom there, so that a responsible Head is appointed to look after the routine of the place in his absence and to welcome his Grace when he returns. It would have been a pleasant life, directing the brethren in their tasks—the gardeners, the masons, the sculptors, and above all the librarians ever at work upon fair illuminations.’
“All this the Sheik had caused to be written down in case he awoke to find he had forgotten it. And that is how I am now able to tell you the story. But I see, my dear Kent, that our host is frowning at my digression, so—to continue. Now the Sheik had been curious to know in what way the monastic buildings of England differed from those of the Mosque in which he served, and the Italian, saying that the archbishop’s palace he had mentioned was the only one whose ground-plan he could remember with any certainty, drafted the lay-out of grounds and buildings on a large roll of goat-skin. And this plan, taken in conjunction with what the monk had told him, was the ray of light in the Sheik’s despair. After much prayer and meditation, he decides that a trusted member of his community should be sent to England on the trail of the impious thief. This messenger should be given the title ‘Avenger,’ and he must wear an under-robe of red, signifying the blood he was sent out to shed. Somehow he must reach England—find the Pilgrim’s Way, and locate the buildings drafted on the goat-skin.
“He then realized that in order to avoid any suspicion of the messenger’s purpose, the monk’s drawing must be left behind, and another plan made which he could carry with him, and refer to when necessary. This must be concealed from all eyes, except those of the Avenger.
“How he solved that extremely knotty problem, I will now show you.”
Carnaby suddenly got up, stretched himself, helped himself to another cigar, and then said, “As we are all three present,we’ll have a look at that mysterious red lining. Let me save you getting up, my dear Hogarth. Can you give me the key of your safe?”
Hogarth detached the ring of keys from his chain and indicated two of them. “That’s the one to open the panel and that’s the safe. The panel’s in the centre of those built-in bookcases. The key-hole’s in the mouth of that carved monk’s head.”
“Ingenious fellow—our host—eh, Kent,” and laughing, he opened the panel and then the safe, bringing out the package which held the red cloth. He unwrapped it on the table and carried it to the fire-place, shaking it out of its creases.
“Have you examined this carefully, Hogarth?” he asked, turning towards us with his back to the fire.
Hogarth nodded.
“And you saw nothing odd about it?”
Hogarth shook his head.
“Very well, then. Let me go back to our sheik, and see what he does. He sends a messenger, accredited to be on the Prophet’s business, into Kashmir, to summon a distant member of his family who was the first shawl-maker in that country of shawl-makers, who used only the short hairs growing beneath the bristles of the Tibetan goat.
“His relative obeys the summons and journeys to Kabul, where he and the Sheik, his kinsman, put their heads together. A special loom is set up under his instruction. It is solemnly dedicated to the service of Mahomet, and the shawl-maker gets to work, weaving the red robe for the Avenger. When it was finished—without seam, which was a sign of great honour—it carried the secret of the monk’s plan, but in such a way that only the Avenger himself—a young son of the Sheik—could see it. Any other, as we did, could spend months without discovering anything unusual. Now, I want you both to look at it close to the light.”
He came over, standing between us, with the red cloth in his hand. “Can you see any irregularity in the weaving?” he asked.
We both shook our heads, for it looked entirely smooth.
“And yet,” went on Carnaby, “the Avenger, wearing this, mind you and wishing to remind himself of any detail connected with the plan, had only to pull the tunic over his head, and look through it towards the sun. To illustrate what I mean, let us take this strong reading lamp for the sun. Now—look through it.” He held the cloth against the light, and as we looked closely, we both saw an elaborate architectural and surveyor’s plan staring at us.
Each square or oblong had an Arabic letter in its centre; and beneath the plan in small characters, each of the letters was explained: such as—an A might mean an orchard; B a stable; K a chapel; and other letters a cow-house, pig-sty, banqueting hall, refectory, sleeping rooms, kitchens, larders, etc., down to the smallest details.
“I told you just now,” said Carnaby, “that I have recently examined that sacred loom, and I gathered that this drawing was made by a system of tighter weaving—by a variable touch of the weaver, now heavy—now lightly, when operating the comb, or whatever that bar is called that keeps going up and down—I forget.”
Hogarth smiled. “Hoadley accuses me of having a smattering of most things, and I think you will find that your bar is called the lay, the lathe or the batten.”
“Move up one, O erudite youngster,” said Carnaby. “Well—there you have it—the main mystery of your
coat—and before I go on to explain your own connection with the case, and how I managed to solve it in the ordinary way of police routine—I’d like to know your reactions if any. Hogarth?”
“A number of things are whizzing in my head,” replied our host, “but quite frankly, only two facts which are connected with you and Kent appear to me clearly out of the fog.”
“Me?” I asked astonished. “Why me? How do I come into it?”
“Because you are the only writer—or shall I say ‘professional writer’—who is in on this; and I insist that Carnaby allows you to write the history of that unscrupulous Italian.”
“Funny,” I said, “because I was about to ask Carnaby if he would have any objections to my doing so. I’ll dedicate it to you, Carnaby, and give you a share of the royalties. I must say it appeals to me. What about it? Any objection?”
“Certainly not—if you don’t object to a test,” he answered. “Your qualifications as a biographer combined with your genius as a thriller writer, recommend you strongly for the job. But I don’t want you to be influenced by the demands of your reading public into making a grave error of truth, so do you mind first telling me how your imagination would describe your hero, the monk? Consider your clues; his cunning, his height and his strength. That’s all I’ve told you so far.”
“Yes——” I considered. “His cunning appealed to Prince John—his stature and strength to King Richard. That’s obvious. But he seemed to fascinate all with whom he came in contact. The Pope—Saladin—the Sheik of Kabul—and from his ideas about women—I should imagine he dominated the ladies too. Therefore, with that in mind, I picture him as a very fine-looking man.”
The Master of the Macabre Page 16
