by C T Cassana
But best of all, he was the absolute ruler of that realm, and no other member of the family seemed to have the slightest interest in poking around up there. In fact, in no time at all he had set up his own study at an old dilapidated desk, very similar to the one his father had in the library, but adorned with block front drawers with a small winged sphinx on the base.
Noticing that Charlie was spending more and more time in the attic and that he had set up his own corner up there, Maggie made an attempt to organize it and tidy it up a little, but the boy managed to dissuade her with the help of his father.
“Come on, Maggie. If you arrange it your way, you’ll take away all the charm,” Marcus told her, taking her by the arm to lead her back downstairs.
One rainy autumn afternoon, Charlie was trying to gather together his trading cards, which had ended up scattered through various drawers of his desk. He had only managed to find a few of them, so he reached up to look through the top drawers. In order to see clearly to the bottom of each drawer, he stood on his tiptoes and leaned forward, supporting his weight on the small winged sphinx on the base.
Suddenly, he heard a muffled groan and the statuette gave way and snapped off, revealing a small hole behind it.
“I’ve ruined it!” he thought as he examined the damage.
He was sure that his mother would tell him off for breaking an antique; when it came to furniture, he was not to be trusted. Although it was an old desk that only he used, she would no doubt deem it as valuable as the old couch in the library or the portraits of the two old codgers.
The boy picked up the figurine and tried to put it back into position, but it fell off every time he tried.
“Bloody hell!”
He would have to go downstairs to get the tube of glue that his father kept in his desk, where he would no doubt still be working. If his father saw him take it he would know at once that he had broken something, so he decided he should try one more time to fit it back on before going for the glue.
The sphinx smiled at him with its little wooden wings drawn up against its body as he tried with all his might to push it back into place once more. But the statuette fell off yet again.
Determined not to give up hope, he brought the lamp that stood on the desk down to the opening to check whether there was something obstructing it, and he discovered a tiny rectangular piece of wood inside it. He stuck his finger inside forcefully and tried to pull it out, but found he couldn’t move it. He then pushed it down as if it were a piano key. At that moment, a loud, dull thud made his heart jump.
. . .
Taken aback, Charlie examined the small black hole in front of him, gaping in disbelief at what had just happened. The small piece of wood that he had just pressed was in fact a button to open a secret trap door in the front of his desk.
The pupils of his eyes had dilated completely and he could feel his heart beating furiously in his chest. This was certainly the most exciting thing that had happened since they had moved into the house.
Slowly he reached a finger out to the opening and pulled the panel away to reveal a small compartment with an envelope concealed inside it.
“Wow!” he exclaimed in excitement. “A secret hiding spot!”
He reached his hand in carefully and pulled out the envelope, bringing it under the light to inspect it. It was very fine quality paper, like the kind his grandparents would use. The original white color had turned yellow with the passage of time, and it was sealed with a wax seal that bore an engraved image of an hourglass. On the back of the envelope a phrase was written in an elegant, old-fashioned script that reminded him of his grandmother Louise’s handwriting.
“Et modo quae fuerat somnium, facta via est,” he read aloud. “Latin?! What am I supposed to do now?”
Charlie held the letter in both hands, weighing up for a moment whether or not he should open it. The fact that somebody had gone to so much trouble to hide it made it tremendously interesting and tempting, but the quote in Latin confused him. What if he got into trouble for opening a letter that turned out to be entirely in Latin anyway? The boy raised the envelope and brought it closer to the lamp, trying to catch a glimpse of what was inside.
“I can’t see anything. I don’t know why they like to use this kind of paper,” he said, referring to all adults in general.
He then remembered that hidden in his desk he had a small knife that he could use to open the wax seal carefully without tearing the paper, so that he could seal it up again without leaving any sign that it had been opened. And if it didn’t work, he could take the letter to school and throw it out in a wastepaper bin there when nobody was looking. Especially not his nosy sister.
“Problem sorted,” he declared, while he took out the knife and began the delicate operation.
Once he had opened the envelope, he took out a piece of paper which, fortunately, was written in English. The boy read it aloud:
“In the autumn of my life, I write these words to bequeath to you, my descendants, my most beloved possessions.
Of all of these, the most valuable is without doubt the name of my ancestors, which I received unblemished from my father and which I leave unblemished to you, trusting that you shall preserve it likewise and shall wear it with the pride and decorum it deserves.
A dedication to the constant search for knowledge and truth has always been a characteristic quality of our family, as has the courage necessary to pursue both under any circumstances. This has brought us moments of joy and of sorrow but, above all, a solid and well-deserved reputation as honorable people. Enjoy it as well and keep it intact, so that those who follow you may likewise value and enjoy it.
I have provided that the bulk of my fortune and properties remain in the hands of the family, this house being the most beloved of all. Preserve it forever in the name of the Conwells, along with the magnificent treasure it conceals. Its appearance is simple but its value its inestimable, because it will enable you to live a thousand lives in one, to take part in unimaginable adventures and to expand your knowledge immensely.
I know that you will be able to find it, and when you do, remember that you are its legitimate and lifelong owners. However, you must understand that its worth is so extraordinary that many shall seek to take it from you; you shall be the object of envy and your lives shall not be free of dangers and hardships. That is why you must trust in no one, enjoying this treasure in total secrecy and with the utmost discretion, acting always honorably and ethically, as befits a member of the Conwell family.
Go forth, then, and prove that you are worthy of that name.
Wishing you luck and good fortune,
Horatio Conwell”
“Wow, a treasure!” exclaimed Charlie, thunderstruck. “Could it be for real?”
Charlie noticed that the letter was signed by the old man from the portrait in the library, and was dated September 9, 1969. He then re-read the last few paragraphs to make sure that he had understood the letter perfectly, in spite of its overwrought style. It spoke of a treasure, a treasure of extraordinary value, to be exact. He took a moment to calm down and then began wondering how he would be able to find it, when he saw that along with the letter there was a second sheet of paper with a poem in Latin that he could only just barely read.
“Latin! This guy was a real pain!” he moaned, shaking his head in annoyance. “It would have been so easy just to put a map in here...”
At that moment he heard his mother’s voice calling for him to come down to dinner.
“I’m coming!!” the boy replied.
He picked up the envelope again to put the letter back in, and as he did so he found that it also contained an old, tarnished metal key, around 3 inches long, with an elaborate plant motif on its head. Next to the key he found a large silver ring, with three waves engraved on its surface. The boy pulled out both objects and held them up to the light to see them more clearly.
Maggie called him again, but this time the tone of her voice di
dn’t sound so friendly. Charlie knew that he’d better put everything away and go downstairs at once, or she would come upstairs to get him.
“I’ll be right down!” he shouted.
He hurriedly shoved everything into the envelope and put it back inside the secret compartment. He then ripped a strip of paper out of one of his notebooks, folded it up as many times as he could and forced it down into the gap in the desk, followed by the sphinx. The figurine smiled knowingly at him, this time without falling from its spot, as if the whole thing had been no more than a trick so that Charlie would discover its secret.
The boy left the room and charged noisily down the stairs so that his mother would hear that he was on his way. As he did so, his brain was besieged with one question after another. Why did this Horatio guy go to so much trouble to hide a letter if he wanted his family to find it? Why did he put a ring and a key in the envelope? What kind of treasure is simple in appearance but of inestimable value? Suddenly he was struck by the terrible thought that the former owner of the house had already found it. He broke into a cold sweat and his heart began racing once again.
Maybe that’s why he had sold the house and hadn’t even bothered to take anything in it, because he already had what he needed... But if he did, why would he have left the letter there for anyone to find? It didn’t make much sense, and of course it wouldn’t help him keep the existence of the treasure a secret.
Maybe Horatio’s descendant wasn’t quite as clever as the old man had hoped. Perhaps he only cared about the money and all that stuff about the family name and history meant nothing to him. So the dummy sold them the house with everything it contained, without knowing that he had missed out on the chance of finding a treasure.
Charlie felt calmer now. He had two theories and a poem in Latin to help him work out which of them was correct. Why did it have to be in Latin?
. . .
Before going into dinner, Charlie went into the library for a moment. As he passed in front of the portrait of Horatio Conwell, the boy timidly raised his eyes. He got the feeling that the old man was looking angrier than ever.
“It looks like I’ve found your little secret,” he muttered softly.
“What’s that?” asked Marcus, who was still working at his desk.
“Nothing, Dad. I asked you if you knew whether there was a basic Latin dictionary around here somewhere.”
“Of course, there are several. What do you want it for?”
“Huh? Well,” the boy stammered in reply. He was so excited about his discovery that he had forgotten to prepare an excuse. “It’s for school. I wanted to look up that thing that Caesar said when he got to the Omicron.”
“Charlie, Omicron is a letter in the Greek alphabet. The quote you’re referring to is what Caesar said when he crossed the Rubicon river. I think you’re going to have to ask your mother to tell you the story again,” replied his father, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder and leading him gently toward the kitchen.
Just before they left the room, Charlie felt the need to cast a quick glance back at the painting of the old curmudgeon, and this time he thought the portrait was smiling at him with a mocking air.
. . .
Maggie was an excellent storyteller. When the children were little she started telling them classic fairy tales like the ones that she and so many other people had been raised on. As she couldn’t remember them in much detail, she picked up a couple of books with the most popular stories, like “Little Red Riding Hood”, “Hansel and Gretel” and “Thumbelina”. But when she read them to her children at dinner time or just before bed, she found she simply couldn’t read them as they were written.
“My God, Marcus!” she had exclaimed with horror. “These stories are totally barbaric! I’d forgotten how cruel so many of them were. How am I going to tell them that Little Red Riding Hood and her grandmother slash open the poor wolf’s belly while he’s asleep to put stones inside him? Or the one about the father leaving his own children in the woods because they eat too much!”
So Maggie decided to replace the classic fairy tales with different stories which, to her mind, were far more instructive. Stories of heroes and villains, of conquerors and their victims, of brave warriors who fought evil tyrants, of days long ago in lands far away. Fictional characters like Little Red Riding Hood, the Three Little Pigs or Puss in Boots were replaced with real figures like Cleopatra and Marc Antony, Julius Caesar, Napoleon Bonaparte, Admiral Nelson, Sir Ernest Shackleton, Madame Curie and Alexander the Great. All these figures were mixed together in an amalgam of eras, names and places that Maggie tried to put in order with the help of a map of the world located opposite the kitchen table.
“Darling,” said Marcus at dinner that night, “I believe Charlie wants you to tell him the story of Julius Caesar.”
“Well,” explained Charlie, “actually I’d rather hear the story of this house. We’ve been living here for months and we don’t know anything about it.”
“But I thought you wanted to hear Caesar’s story so you could tell it tomorrow in class,” interjected Marcus.
“It’s fine, Dad. I’ll look it up in the books in the library. You always say we should learn how to look things up in books. And we’ve heard that story lots of times,” replied the boy.
“Yes,” Lisa chimed in. “Tell us the story of the house, Mum. For once in our lives, Charlie and I actually agree on something.”
“Well, I only know a few things about it,” said Maggie. “A promising young architect named Edmund J. Jones built it in 1905 for his wife. Unfortunately, she died giving birth to their first son, and Mr. Jones was totally devastated and never wanted to live in the house. For years it remained empty, totally deserted, until in 1925 it was bought by Horatio Conwell.”
Charlie jumped at the mere sound of the name. It was the old man from the painting and the writer of the letter he had found in the attic. Maggie gave him a surprised look and then went on with her story.
“Horatio Conwell was a prestigious professor of ancient history at Oxford, but when his father died he had to give up teaching and move to London to look after the family business. He was a very talented businessman as well, and he made a fortune without ever losing his reputation as an honorable gentleman.
“But his real vocation was in the academic world, which he never left behind completely, which is why everyone always called him ‘Professor’, and he was very well known. He was a prominent member of the British Academy and a supporter and patron of the British Museum.
“When Horatio died, his son Solomon inherited this house. Just like his father, Solomon studied history and archeology at Oxford. He was also connected to the museum. He worked there his whole life and he was the first lead curator of the British Library before it was moved to the new building at St. Pancras.
“However, Solomon was a rather reserved and introverted man, and a much less capable businessman than his father, so the huge family fortune was eventually decimated. Solomon had a son, Maurizio, who is the one who sold us the house.”
“And does he work at the museum too?” asked Charlie.
“Oh, no!” replied Maggie. “Unlike his grandfather and his father, Maurizio has never been brilliant at anything and he’s had some spectacular business failures. From what I know, his parents got divorced and his mother took him to live with her on the Côte d’Azur, where she raised him in an atmosphere of luxury and extravagance. His parents barely even spoke to each other, so Maurizio had almost no relationship with the Conwell family. Rumor has it that he was only interested in money, and he only came to London for the reading of the will of his father, poor old Solomon. In fact, he didn’t even go to his funeral.
“Eventually, Maurizio’s financial situation became unsustainable, and to cover all his debts he was forced to sell all his possessions in England at a loss. This house was one of them, and although Solomon had stated in his will that he wanted it to remain in the hands of the Conwell family, the heartless r
at ignored his father’s request and put it up for sale.”
“And that’s where we came in and bought it for a steal,” added Charlie.
“Exactly,” replied his mother. “But then he didn’t even come and sign the contract, or check whether there was any object or family heirloom in the house he might want to keep.”
Charlie tried to hold back a huge smile as he listened to his mother. His second theory appeared to be confirmed. This Maurizio was beginning to look like a dimwit who had sold them the house without even suspecting that it contained a valuable treasure.
“And how do you know so much about the Conwells?” asked Lisa in an inquisitive tone.
“Well, my dear, the Conwells were very important and well-known people at the museum. In fact, it was a colleague of mine, Miss Rotherwick, who informed me of the chance to buy the house and who told me the family’s story.”
That night, Charlie cleaned up and went to bed with unusual speed. He was quite tired, but above all he needed to ponder over the professor’s letter and the story that his mother had told them at dinner. Once in bed, he went over both in his mind, trying to piece together everything down to the smallest detail, and as he did so he felt a great sense of excitement overwhelm him.
Quite possibly, he was on the verge of making a great discovery, just like a character from the amazing stories that his mother always told them.
. . .
After the death of his young wife, Professor Horatio Conwell was never the same again. Fearing that he would never recover his will to live, Sir Robert Ashworth, his mentor and dearest friend, tried to help him by appealing to Horatio Conwell’s one weakness: his love of archeology.
After months of dogged insistence, Sir Robert finally convinced the professor to agree to oversee the reconstruction work on an old Cistercian abbey located on one of his properties in Wales. Actually, for years Horatio himself had reproached his good friend for failing to do anything to prevent the state of total disrepair into which the little monastery had fallen.
