I
Verum usque in praesentem diem multa
garriunt inter se Canonici de abscondito quodam
istius Abbatis Thomae thesauro, quem saepe, quanquam
ahduc incassum, quaesiverunt Steinfeldenses. Ipsum
enim Thomam adhuc florida in aetate existentem
ingentem auri massam circa monasterium defodisse
perhibent; de quo multoties interrogatus ubi esset,
cum risu respondere solitus erat: âJob,
Johannes, et Zacharias vel vobis vel posteris
indicabuntâ; idemque aliquando adiicere se inventuris
minime invisurum. Inter alia huius Abbatis opera,
hoc memoria praecipue dignum indico quod fenestram
magnam in orientali parte alae australis in ecclesia
sua imaginibus optime in vitro depictis impleverit:
id quod et ipsius effigies et insignia ibidem posita
demonstrant. Domum quoque Abbatialem fere totam
restauravit: puteo in atrio ipsius effosso
et lapidibus marmoreis pulchre caelatis exornato.
Decessit autem, morte aliquantulum subitanea perculsus,
aetatis suae anno lxxii(do), incarnationis vero
Dominicae mdxxix(o).
âI suppose I shall have to translate
this,â said the antiquary to himself, as he
finished copying the above lines from that rather rare
and exceedingly diffuse book, the Sertum Steinfeldense
Norbertinum. âWell, it may as well be
done first as last,â and accordingly the following
rendering was very quickly produced:
Up to the present day there is much
gossip among the Canons about a certain hidden
treasure of this Abbot Thomas, for which those of
Steinfeld have often made search, though hitherto
in vain. The story is that Thomas, while
yet in the vigour of life, concealed a very large
quantity of gold somewhere in the monastery. He
was often asked where it was, and always answered,
with a laugh: âJob, John, and Zechariah
will tell either you or your successors.â
He sometimes added that he should feel no grudge
against those who might find it. Among other
works carried out by this Abbot I may specially mention
his filling the great window at the east end of
the south aisle of the church with figures admirably
painted on glass, as his effigy and arms in the
window attest. He also restored almost the whole
of the Abbotâs lodging, and dug a well in
the court of it, which he adorned with beautiful
carvings in marble. He died rather suddenly in
the seventy-second year of his age, A.D. 1529.
The object which the antiquary had
before him at the moment was that of tracing the whereabouts
of the painted windows of the Abbey Church at Steinfeld.
Shortly after the Revolution, a very large quantity
of painted glass made its way from the dissolved abbeys
of Germany and Belgium to this country, and may now
be seen adorning various of our parish churches, cathedrals,
and private chapels. Steinfeld Abbey was among
the most considerable of these involuntary contributors
to our artistic possession (I am quoting the somewhat
ponderous preamble of the book which the antiquary
wrote), and the greater part of the glass from that
institution can be identified without much difficulty
by the help, either of the numerous inscriptions in
which the place is mentioned, or of the subjects of
the windows, in which several well-defined cycles or
narratives were represented.
The passage with which I began my
story had set the antiquary on the track of another
identification. In a private chapelno
matter wherehe had seen three large figures,
each occupying a whole light in a window, and evidently
the work of one artist. Their style made it plain
that that artist had been a German of the sixteenth
century; but hitherto the more exact localizing of
them had been a puzzle. They representedwill
you be surprised to hear it?JOB PATRIARCHA,
JOHANNES EVANGELISTA, ZACHARIAS PROPHETA, and
each of them held a book or scroll, inscribed with
a sentence from his writings. These, as a matter
of course, the antiquary had noted, and had been struck
by the curious way in which they differed from any
text of the Vulgate that he had been able to examine.
Thus the scroll in Jobâs hand was inscribed:
Auro est locus in quo absconditur (for conflatur);
on the book of John was: Habent in vestimentis
suis scripturam quam nemo novit (for in vestimento
scriptum, the following words being taken from
another verse); and Zacharias had: Super lapidem
unum septem oculi sunt (which alone of the three
presents an unaltered text).
A sad perplexity it had been to our
investigator to think why these three personages should
have been placed together in one window. There
was no bond of connexion between them, either historic,
symbolic, or doctrinal, and he could only suppose
that they must have formed part of a very large series
of Prophets and Apostles, which might have filled,
say, all the clerestory windows of some capacious
church. But the passage from the Sertum
had altered the situation by showing that the names
of the actual personages represented in the glass
now in Lord Dâs chapel had
been constantly on the lips of Abbot Thomas von Eschenhausen
of Steinfeld, and that this Abbot had put up a painted
window, probably about the year 1520, in the south
aisle of his abbey church. It was no very wild
conjecture that the three figures might have formed
part of Abbot Thomasâs offering; it was one
which, moreover, could probably be confirmed or set
aside by another careful examination of the glass.
And, as Mr. Somerton was a man of leisure, he set
out on pilgrimage to the private chapel with very
little delay. His conjecture was confirmed to
the full. Not only did the style and technique
of the glass suit perfectly with the date and place
required, but in another window of the chapel he found
some glass, known to have been bought along with the
figures, which contained the arms of Abbot Thomas von
Eschenhausen.
At intervals during his researches
Mr. Somerton had been haunted by the recollection
of the gossip about the hidden treasure, and, as he
thought the matter over, it became more and more obvious
to him that if the Abbot meant anything by the enigmatical
answer which he gave to his questioners, he must have
meant that the secret was to be found somewhere in
the window he had placed in the abbey church.
It was undeniable, furthermore, that the first of
the curiously-selected texts on the scrolls in the
window might be taken to have a reference to hidden
treasure.
Every feature, therefore, or mark
which could possibly assist in elucidating the riddle
which, he felt sure, the Abbot had set to posterity
he noted with scrupulous care, and, returning to his
Berkshire manor-house, consumed many a pint of the
midnight oil over his tracings and sketches.
After two or three weeks, a day came when Mr Somerton
announced to his man that he must pack his own and
his masterâs things for a short journey abroad,
whither for the moment we will not follow him.
II
Mr Gregory, the Rector of Parsbury,
had strolled out before breakfast, it being a fine
autumn morning, as far as the gate of his carriage-drive,
with intent to meet the postman and sniff the cool
air. Nor was he disappointed of either purpose.
Before he had had time to answer more than ten or
eleven of the miscellaneous questions propounded to
him in the lightness of their hearts by his young
offspring, who had accompanied him, the postman was
seen approaching; and among the morningâs budget
was one letter bearing a foreign postmark and stamp
(which became at once the objects of an eager competition
among the youthful Gregorys), and addressed in an
uneducated, but plainly an English hand.
When the Rector opened it, and turned
to the signature, he realized that it came from the
confidential valet of his friend and squire, Mr. Somerton.
Thus it ran:
Honoured Sir,
Has I am in a great anxiety about Master
I write at is Wish to beg you Sir if you could
be so good as Step over. Master Has add a Nastey
Shock and keeps His Bedd. I never Have known
Him like this but No wonder and Nothing will serve
but you Sir. Master says would I mintion
the Short Way Here is Drive to Cobblince and take a
Trap. Hopeing I Have maid all Plain, but
am much Confused in Myself what with Anxiatey
and Weakfulness at Night. If I might be so Bold
Sir it will be a Pleasure to see a Honnest Brish
Face among all These Forig ones.
I am Sir
Your obedât Servât
William Brown.
P.S.The Village
for Town I will not Turm It is name Steenfeld.
The reader must be left to picture
to himself in detail the surprise, confusion, and
hurry of preparation into which the receipt of such
a letter would be likely to plunge a quiet Berkshire
parsonage in the year of grace 1859. It is enough
for me to say that a train to town was caught in the
course of the day, and that Mr Gregory was able to
secure a cabin in the Antwerp boat and a place in
the Coblenz train. Nor was it difficult to manage
the transit from that centre to Steinfeld.
I labour under a grave disadvantage
as narrator of this story in that I have never visited
Steinfeld myself, and that neither of the principal
actors in the episode (from whom I derive my information)
was able to give me anything but a vague and rather
dismal idea of its appearance. I gather that
it is a small place, with a large church despoiled
of its ancient fittings; a number of rather ruinous
great buildings, mostly of the seventeenth century,
surround this church; for the abbey, in common with
most of those on the Continent, was rebuilt in a luxurious
fashion by its inhabitants at that period. It
has not seemed to me worth while to lavish money on
a visit to the place, for though it is probably far
more attractive than either Mr Somerton or Mr Gregory
thought it, there is evidently little, if anything,
of first-rate interest to be seenexcept,
perhaps, one thing, which I should not care to see.
The inn where the English gentleman
and his servant were lodged is, or was, the only âpossibleâ
one in the village. Mr Gregory was taken to it
at once by his driver, and found Mr Brown waiting at
the door. Mr Brown, a model when in his Berkshire
home of the impassive whiskered race who are known
as confidential valets, was now egregiously out of
his element, in a light tweed suit, anxious, almost
irritable, and plainly anything but master of the
situation. His relief at the sight of the âhonest
British faceâ of his Rector was unmeasured, but
words to describe it were denied him. He could
only say:
âWell, I ham pleased, Iâm
sure, sir, to see you. And so Iâm sure,
sir, will master.â
âHow is your master, Brown?â Mr Gregory
eagerly put in.
âI think heâs better,
sir, thank you; but heâs had a dreadful time
of it. I âope heâs gettinâ
some sleep now, butâ
âWhat has been the matterI
couldnât make out from your letter? Was
it an accident of any kind?â
âWell, sir, I âardly know
whether Iâd better speak about it. Master
was very partickler he should be the one to tell you.
But thereâs no bones brokethatâs
one thing Iâm sure we ought to be thankfulâ
âWhat does the doctor say?â asked Mr Gregory.
They were by this time outside Mr
Somertonâs bedroom door, and speaking in low
tones. Mr Gregory, who happened to be in front,
was feeling for the handle, and chanced to run his
fingers over the panels. Before Brown could answer,
there was a terrible cry from within the room.
âIn Godâs name, who is
that?â were the first words they heard.
âBrown, is it?â
âYes, sirme, sir,
and Mr Gregory,â Brown hastened to answer, and
there was an audible groan of relief in reply.
They entered the room, which was darkened
against the afternoon sun, and Mr Gregory saw, with
a shock of pity, how drawn, how damp with drops of
fear, was the usually calm face of his friend, who,
sitting up in the curtained bed, stretched out a shaking
hand to welcome him.
âBetter for seeing you, my dear
Gregory,â was the reply to the Rectorâs
first question, and it was palpably true.
After five minutes of conversation
Mr Somerton was more his own man, Brown afterwards
reported, than he had been for days. He was able
to eat a more than respectable dinner, and talked
confidently of being fit to stand a journey to Coblenz
within twenty-four hours.
âBut thereâs one thing,â
he said, with a return of agitation which Mr Gregory
did not like to see, âwhich I must beg you to
do for me, my dear Gregory. Donât,â
he went on, laying his hand on Gregoryâs to forestall
any interruptionâdonât ask
me what it is, or why I want it done. Iâm
not up to explaining it yet; it would throw me backundo
all the good you have done me by coming. The
only word I will say about it is that you run no risk
whatever by doing it, and that Brown can and will show
you tomorrow what it is. Itâs merely to
put backto keepsomethingNo;
I canât speak of it yet. Do you mind calling
Brown?â
âWell, Somerton,â said
Mr Gregory, as he crossed the room to the door.
âI wonât ask for any explanations till
you see fit to give them. And if this bit of
business is as easy as you represent it to be, I will
very gladly undertake it for you the first thing in
the morning.â
âAh, I was sure you would, my
dear Gregory; I was certain I could rely on you.
I shall owe you more thanks than I can tell. Now,
here is Brown. Brown, one word with you.â
âShall I go?â interjected Mr Gregory.
âNot at all. Dear me, no.
Brown, the first thing tomorrow morning(you
donât mind early hours, I know, Gregory)you
must take the Rector tothere, you
knowâ (a nod from Brown, who looked grave and
anxious), âand he and you will put that back.
You neednât be in the least alarmed; itâs
perfectly safe in the daytime. You know
what I mean. It lies on the step, you know, wherewhere
we put it.â (Brown swallowed dryly once or twice,
and, failing to speak, bowed.) âAndyes,
thatâs all. Only this one other word, my
dear Gregory. If you can manage to keep
from questioning Brown about this matter, I shall
be still more bound to you. Tomorrow evening,
at latest, if all goes well, I shall be able, I believe,
to tell you the whole story from start to finish.
And now Iâll wish you good night. Brown
will be with mehe sleeps hereand
if I were you, I should lock my door. Yes, be
particular to do that. Theythey like
it, the people here, and itâs better. Good
night, good night.â
They parted upon this, and if Mr Gregory
woke once or twice in the small hours and fancied
he heard a fumbling about the lower part of his locked
door, it was, perhaps, no more than what a quiet man,
suddenly plunged into a strange bed and the heart
of a mystery, might reasonably expect. Certainly
he thought, to the end of his days, that he had heard
such a sound twice or three times between midnight
and dawn.
He was up with the sun, and out in
company with Brown soon after. Perplexing as
was the service he had been asked to perform for Mr
Somerton, it was not a difficult or an alarming one,
and within half an hour from his leaving the inn it
was over. What it was I shall not as yet divulge.
Later in the morning Mr Somerton,
now almost himself again, was able to make a start
from Steinfeld; and that same evening, whether at Coblenz
or at some intermediate stage on the journey I am
not certain, he settled down to the promised explanation.
Brown was present, but how much of the matter was
ever really made plain to his comprehension he would
never say, and I am unable to conjecture.
III
This was Mr Somertonâs story:
âYou know roughly, both of you,
that this expedition of mine was undertaken with the
object of tracing something in connexion with some
old painted glass in Lord Dâs
private chapel. Well, the starting-point of the
whole matter lies in this passage from an old printed
book, to which I will ask your attention.â
And at this point Mr Somerton went
carefully over some ground with which we are already
familiar.
âOn my second visit to the chapel,â
he went on, âmy purpose was to take every note
I could of figures, lettering, diamond-scratchings
on the glass, and even apparently accidental markings.
The first point which I tackled was that of the inscribed
scrolls. I could not doubt that the first of
these, that of JobâThere is a place
for the gold where it is hiddenâwith
its intentional alteration, must refer to the treasure;
so I applied myself with some confidence to the next,
that of St JohnâThey have on their
vestures a writing which no man knoweth.â
The natural question will have occurred to you:
Was there an inscription on the robes of the figures?
I could see none; each of the three had a broad black
border to his mantle, which made a conspicuous and
rather ugly feature in the window. I was nonplussed,
I will own, and, but for a curious bit of luck, I
think I should have left the search where the Canons
of Steinfeld had left it before me. But it so
happened that there was a good deal of dust on the
surface of the glass, and Lord D,
happening to come in, noticed my blackened hands,
and kindly insisted on sending for a Turkâs
head broom to clean down the window. There must,
I suppose, have been a rough piece in the broom; anyhow,
as it passed over the border of one of the mantles,
I noticed that it left a long scratch, and that some
yellow stain instantly showed up. I asked the
man to stop his work for a moment, and ran up the
ladder to examine the place. The yellow stain
was there, sure enough, and what had come away was
a thick black pigment, which had evidently been laid
on with the brush after the glass had been burnt, and
could therefore be easily scraped off without doing
any harm. I scraped, accordingly, and you will
hardly believeno, I do you an injustice;
you will have guessed alreadythat I found
under this black pigment two or three clearly-formed
capital letters in yellow stain on a clear ground.
Of course, I could hardly contain my delight.
âI told Lord D
that I had detected an inscription which I thought
might be very interesting, and begged to be allowed
to uncover the whole of it. He made no difficulty
about it whatever, told me to do exactly as I pleased,
and then, having an engagement, was obligedrather
to my relief, I must sayto leave me.
I set to work at once, and found the task a fairly
easy one. The pigment, disintegrated, of course,
by time, came off almost at a touch, and I donât
think that it took me a couple of hours, all told,
to clean the whole of the black borders in all three
lights. Each of the figures had, as the inscription
said, âa writing on their vestures which nobody
knewâ.
âThis discovery, of course,
made it absolutely certain to my mind that I was on
the right track. And, now, what was the inscription?
While I was cleaning the glass I almost took pains
not to read the lettering, saving up the treat until
I had got the whole thing clear. And when that
was done, my dear Gregory, I assure you I could almost
have cried from sheer disappointment. What I
read was only the most hopeless jumble of letters
that was ever shaken up in a hat. Here it is:
âBlank as I felt and must have
looked for the first few minutes, my disappointment
didnât last long. I realized almost at once
that I was dealing with a cipher or cryptogram; and
I reflected that it was likely to be of a pretty simple
kind, considering its early date. So I copied
the letters with the most anxious care. Another
little point, I may tell you, turned up in the process
which confirmed my belief in the cipher. After
copying the letters on Jobâs robe I counted them,
to make sure that I had them right. There were
thirty-eight; and, just as I finished going through
them, my eye fell on a scratching made with a sharp
point on the edge of the border. It was simply
the number xxxviii in Roman numerals. To cut
the matter short, there was a similar note, as I may
call it, in each of the other lights; and that made
it plain to me that the glass-painter had had very
strict orders from Abbot Thomas about the inscription
and had taken pains to get it correct.
âWell, after that discovery
you may imagine how minutely I went over the whole
surface of the glass in search of further light.
Of course, I did not neglect the inscription on the
scroll of ZechariahâUpon one stone
are seven eyes,â but I very quickly concluded
that this must refer to some mark on a stone which
could only be found in situ, where the treasure
was concealed. To be short, I made all possible
notes and sketches and tracings, and then came back
to Parsbury to work out the cipher at leisure.
Oh, the agonies I went through! I thought myself
very clever at first, for I made sure that the key
would be found in some of the old books on secret
writing. The Steganographia of Joachim
Trithemius, who was an earlier contemporary of Abbot
Thomas, seemed particularly promising; so I got that
and Seleniusâs Cryptographia and Baconâs
de Augmentis Scientiarum and some more.
But I could hit upon nothing. Then I tried the
principle of the âmost frequent letterâ,
taking first Latin and then German as a basis.
That didnât help, either; whether it ought to
have done so, I am not clear. And then I came
back to the window itself, and read over my notes,
hoping almost against hope that the Abbot might himself
have somewhere supplied the key I wanted. I could
make nothing out of the colour or pattern of the robes.
There were no landscape backgrounds with subsidiary
objects; there was nothing in the canopies. The
only resource possible seemed to be in the attitudes
of the figures. âJob,â I read:
âscroll in left hand, forefinger of right hand
extended upwards. John: holds inscribed book
in left hand; with right hand blesses, with two fingers.
Zechariah: scroll in left hand; right hand extended
upwards, as Job, but with three fingers pointing up.â
In other words, I reflected, Job has one finger extended,
John has two, Zechariah has three.
May not there be a numerical key concealed in that?
My dear Gregory,â said Mr Somerton, laying his
hand on his friendâs knee, âthat was
the key. I didnât get it to fit at first,
but after two or three trials I saw what was meant.
After the first letter of the inscription you skip
one letter, after the next you skip two,
and after that skip three. Now look at
the result I got. Iâve underlined the letters
which form words:
âDo you see it? âDecem
millia auri reposita sunt in puteo in at ...â
(Ten thousand [pieces] of gold are laid up in a well
in ...), followed by an incomplete word beginning
at. So far so good. I tried the same
plan with the remaining letters; but it wouldnât
work, and I fancied that perhaps the placing of dots
after the three last letters might indicate some difference
of procedure. Then I thought to myself, âWasnât
there some allusion to a well in the account of Abbot
Thomas in that book the âSertumâ?â
Yes, there was; he built a puteus in atrio;
(a well in the court). There, of course, was
my word atrio. The next step was to copy
out the remaining letters of the inscription, omitting
those I had already used. That gave what you
will see on this slip:
âNow, I knew what the three
first letters I wanted werenamely, rioto
complete the word atrio; and, as you will see,
these are all to be found in the first five letters.
I was a little confused at first by the occurrence
of two iâs, but very soon I saw that every
alternate letter must be taken in the remainder of
the inscription. You can work it out for yourself;
the result, continuing where the first âroundâ
left off, thus:
rio domus abbatialis de
Steinfeld a me, Thoma, qui posui custodem
super ea. Gare a qui
la touche.
âSo the whole secret was out:
âTen thousand pieces
of gold are laid up in the well in the court of
the Abbotâs house of
Steinfeld by me, Thomas, who have set a guardian
over them. Gare a qui la
louche.â
âThe last words, I ought to
say, are a device which Abbot Thomas had adopted.
I found it with his arms in another piece of glass
at Lord Dâs, and he drafted
it bodily into his cipher, though it doesnât
quite fit in point of grammar.
âWell, what would any human
being have been tempted to do, my dear Gregory, in
my place? Could he have helped setting off, as
I did, to Steinfeld, and tracing the secret literally
to the fountain-head? I donât believe he
could. Anyhow, I couldnât, and, as I neednât
tell you, I found myself at Steinfeld as soon as the
resources of civilization could put me there, and
installed myself in the inn you saw. I must tell
you that I was not altogether free from forebodingson
one hand of disappointment, on the other of danger.
There was always the possibility that Abbot Thomasâs
well might have been wholly obliterated, or else that
someone, ignorant of cryptograms, and guided only
by luck, might have stumbled on the treasure before
me. And thenâthere was a very
perceptible shaking of the voice hereâI
was not entirely easy, I need not mind confessing,
as to the meaning of the words about the guardian of
the treasure. But, if you donât mind, Iâll
say no more about that untiluntil it becomes
necessary.
âAt the first possible opportunity
Brown and I began exploring the place. I had
naturally represented myself as being interested in
the remains of the abbey, and we could not avoid paying
a visit to the church, impatient as I was to be elsewhere.
Still, it did interest me to see the windows where
the glass had been, and especially that at the east
end of the south aisle. In the tracery lights
of that I was startled to see some fragments and coats-of-arms
remainingAbbot Thomasâs shield was
there, and a small figure with a scroll inscribed
Oculos habent, et non videbunt (They have eyes,
and shall not see), which, I take it, was a hit of
the Abbot at his Canons.
âBut, of course, the principal
object was to find the Abbotâs house. There
is no prescribed place for this, so far as I know,
in the plan of a monastery; you canât predict
of it, as you can of the chapter-house, that it will
be on the eastern side of the cloister, or, as of the
dormitory, that it will communicate with a transept
of the church. I felt that if I asked many questions
I might awaken lingering memories of the treasure,
and I thought it best to try first to discover it for
myself. It was not a very long or difficult search.
That three-sided court south-east of the church, with
deserted piles of building round it, and grass-grown
pavement, which you saw this morning, was the place.
And glad enough I was to see that it was put to no
use, and was neither very far from our inn nor overlooked
by any inhabited building; there were only orchards
and paddocks on the slopes east of the church.
I can tell you that fine stone glowed wonderfully
in the rather watery yellow sunset that we had on
the Tuesday afternoon.
âNext, what about the well?
There was not much doubt about that, as you can testify.
It is really a very remarkable thing. That curb
is, I think, of Italian marble, and the carving I
thought must be Italian also. There were reliefs,
you will perhaps remember, of Eliezer and Rebekah,
and of Jacob opening the well for Rachel, and similar
subjects; but, by way of disarming suspicion, I suppose,
the Abbot had carefully abstained from any of his
cynical and allusive inscriptions.
âI examined the whole structure
with the keenest interest, of coursea
square well-head with an opening in one side; an arch
over it, with a wheel for the rope to pass over, evidently
in very good condition still, for it had been used
within sixty years, or perhaps even later though not
quite recently. Then there was the question of
depth and access to the interior. I suppose the
depth was about sixty to seventy feet; and as to the
other point, it really seemed as if the Abbot had wished
to lead searchers up to the very door of his treasure-house,
for, as you tested for yourself, there were big blocks
of stone bonded into the masonry, and leading down
in a regular staircase round and round the inside of
the well.
âIt seemed almost too good to
be true. I wondered if there was a trapif
the stones were so contrived as to tip over when a
weight was placed on them; but I tried a good many
with my own weight and with my stick, and all seemed,
and actually were, perfectly firm. Of course,
I resolved that Brown and I would make an experiment
that very night.
âI was well prepared. Knowing
the sort of place I should have to explore, I had
brought a sufficiency of good rope and bands of webbing
to surround my body, and cross-bars to hold to, as
well as lanterns and candles and crowbars, all of
which would go into a single carpet-bag and excite
no suspicion. I satisfied myself that my rope
would be long enough, and that the wheel for the bucket
was in good working order, and then we went home to
dinner.
âI had a little cautious conversation
with the landlord, and made out that he would not
be overmuch surprised if I went out for a stroll with
my man about nine oâclock, to make (Heaven forgive
me!) a sketch of the abbey by moonlight. I asked
no questions about the well, and am not likely to
do so now. I fancy I know as much about it as
anyone in Steinfeld: at leastâwith
a strong shudderâI donât want
to know any more.
âNow we come to the crisis,
and, though I hate to think of it, I feel sure, Gregory,
that it will be better for me in all ways to recall
it just as it happened. We started, Brown and
I, at about nine with our bag, and attracted no attention;
for we managed to slip out at the hinder end of the
inn-yard into an alley which brought us quite to the
edge of the village. In five minutes we were
at the well, and for some little time we sat on the
edge of the well-head to make sure that no one was
stirring or spying on us. All we heard was some
horses cropping grass out of sight farther down the
eastern slope. We were perfectly unobserved, and
had plenty of light from the gorgeous full moon to
allow us to get the rope properly fitted over the
wheel. Then I secured the band round my body
beneath the arms. We attached the end of the rope
very securely to a ring in the stonework. Brown
took the lighted lantern and followed me; I had a
crowbar. And so we began to descend cautiously,
feeling every step before we set foot on it, and scanning
the walls in search of any marked stone.
âHalf aloud I counted the steps
as we went down, and we got as far as the thirty-eighth
before I noted anything at all irregular in the surface
of the masonry. Even here there was no mark,
and I began to feel very blank, and to wonder if the
Abbotâs cryptogram could possibly be an elaborate
hoax. At the forty-ninth step the staircase ceased.
It was with a very sinking heart that I began retracing
my steps, and when I was back on the thirty-eighthBrown,
with the lantern, being a step or two above meI
scrutinized the little bit of irregularity in the stonework
with all my might; but there was no vestige of a mark.
âThen it struck me that the
texture of the surface looked just a little smoother
than the rest, or, at least, in some way different.
It might possibly be cement and not stone. I
gave it a good blow with my iron bar. There was
a decidedly hollow sound, though that might be the
result of our being in a well. But there was
more. A great flake of cement dropped on to my
feet, and I saw marks on the stone underneath.
I had tracked the Abbot down, my dear Gregory; even
now I think of it with a certain pride. It took
but a very few more taps to clear the whole of the
cement away, and I saw a slab of stone about two feet
square, upon which was engraven a cross. Disappointment
again, but only for a moment. It was you, Brown,
who reassured me by a casual remark. You said,
if I remember right:
ââItâs a funny cross: looks
like a lot of eyes.â
âI snatched the lantern out
of your hand, and saw with inexpressible pleasure
that the cross was composed of seven eyes, four in
a vertical line, three horizontal. The last of
the scrolls in the window was explained in the way
I had anticipated. Here was my âstone with
the seven eyesâ. So far the Abbotâs
data had been exact, and as I thought of this, the
anxiety about the âguardianâ returned upon
me with increased force. Still I wasnât
going to retreat now.
âWithout giving myself time
to think, I knocked away the cement all round the
marked stone, and then gave it a prise on the right
side with my crowbar. It moved at once, and I
saw that it was but a thin light slab, such as I could
easily lift out myself, and that it stopped the entrance
to a cavity. I did lift it out unbroken, and set
it on the step, for it might be very important to
us to be able to replace it. Then I waited for
several minutes on the step just above. I donât
know why, but I think to see if any dreadful thing
would rush out. Nothing happened. Next I
lit a candle, and very cautiously I placed it inside
the cavity, with some idea of seeing whether there
were foul air, and of getting a glimpse of what was
inside. There was some foulness of air
which nearly extinguished the flame, but in no long
time it burned quite steadily. The hole went
some little way back, and also on the right and left
of the entrance, and I could see some rounded light-coloured
objects within which might be bags. There was
no use in waiting. I faced the cavity, and looked
in. There was nothing immediately in the front
of the hole. I put my arm in and felt to the
right, very gingerly....
âJust give me a glass of cognac,
Brown. Iâll go on in a moment, Gregory....
âWell, I felt to the right,
and my fingers touched something curved, that feltyesmore
or less like leather; dampish it was, and evidently
part of a heavy, full thing. There was nothing,
I must say, to alarm one. I grew bolder, and
putting both hands in as well as I could, I pulled
it to me, and it came. It was heavy, but moved
more easily than I had expected. As I pulled
it towards the entrance, my left elbow knocked over
and extinguished the candle. I got the thing
fairly in front of the mouth and began drawing it
out. Just then Brown gave a sharp ejaculation
and ran quickly up the steps with the lantern.
He will tell you why in a moment. Startled as
I was, I looked round after him, and saw him stand
for a minute at the top and then walk away a few yards.
Then I heard him call softly, âAll right, sir,â
and went on pulling out the great bag, in complete
darkness. It hung for an instant on the edge of
the hole, then slipped forward on to my chest, and
put its arms round my neck.
âMy dear Gregory, I am telling
you the exact truth. I believe I am now acquainted
with the extremity of terror and repulsion which a
man can endure without losing his mind. I can
only just manage to tell you now the bare outline
of the experience. I was conscious of a most horrible
smell of mould, and of a cold kind of face pressed
against my own, and moving slowly over it, and of
severalI donât know how manylegs
or arms or tentacles or something clinging to my body.
I screamed out, Brown says, like a beast, and fell
away backward from the step on which I stood, and
the creature slipped downwards, I suppose, on to that
same step. Providentially the band round me held
firm. Brown did not lose his head, and was strong
enough to pull me up to the top and get me over the
edge quite promptly. How he managed it exactly
I donât know, and I think he would find it hard
to tell you. I believe he contrived to hide our
implements in the deserted building near by, and with
very great difficulty he got me back to the inn.
I was in no state to make explanations, and Brown
knows no German; but next morning I told the people
some tale of having had a bad fall in the abbey ruins,
which I suppose they believed. And now, before
I go further, I should just like you to hear what
Brownâs experiences during those few minutes
were. Tell the Rector, Brown, what you told me.â
âWell, sir,â said Brown,
speaking low and nervously, âit was just this
way. Master was busy down in front of the âolĂ©,
and I was âolding the lantern and looking on,
when I âeard somethink drop in the water from
the top, as I thought. So I looked up, and I
see someoneâs âead lookinâ over
at us. I sâpose I must haâ said somethink,
and I âeld the light up and run up the steps,
and my light shone right on the face. That was
a bad un, sir, if ever I see one! A holdish man,
and the face very much fell in, and larfinâ,
as I thought. And I got up the steps as quick
pretty nigh as Iâm tellinâ you, and when
I was out on the ground there warnât a sign
of any person. There âadnât been the
time for anyone to get away, let alone a hold chap,
and I made sure he warnât crouching down by the
well, nor nothink. Next thing I hear master cry
out somethink âorrible, and hall I see was him
hanging out by the rope, and, as master says, âowever
I got him up I couldnât tell you.â
âYou hear that, Gregory?â
said Mr Somerton. âNow, does any explanation
of that incident strike you?â
âThe whole thing is so ghastly
and abnormal that I must own it puts me quite off
my balance; but the thought did occur to me that possibly
thewell, the person who set the trap might
have come to see the success of his plan.â
âJust so, Gregory, just so.
I can think of nothing else solikely,
I should say, if such a word had a place anywhere
in my story. I think it must have been the Abbot....
Well, I havenât much more to tell you. I
spent a miserable night, Brown sitting up with me.
Next day I was no better; unable to get up; no doctor
to be had; and if one had been available, I doubt
if he could have done much for me. I made Brown
write off to you, and spent a second terrible night.
And, Gregory, of this I am sure, and I think it affected
me more than the first shock, for it lasted longer:
there was someone or something on the watch outside
my door the whole night. I almost fancy there
were two. It wasnât only the faint noises
I heard from time to time all through the dark hours,
but there was the smellthe hideous smell
of mould. Every rag I had had on me on that first
evening I had stripped off and made Brown take it away.
I believe he stuffed the things into the stove in
his room; and yet the smell was there, as intense
as it had been in the well; and, what is more, it
came from outside the door. But with the first
glimmer of dawn it faded out, and the sounds ceased,
too; and that convinced me that the thing or things
were creatures of darkness, and could not stand the
daylight; and so I was sure that if anyone could put
back the stone, it or they would be powerless until
someone else took it away again. I had to wait
until you came to get that done. Of course, I
couldnât send Brown to do it by himself, and
still less could I tell anyone who belonged to the
place.
âWell, there is my story; and,
if you donât believe it, I canât help it.
But I think you do.â
âIndeed,â said Mr Gregory,
âI can find no alternative. I must
believe it! I saw the well and the stone myself,
and had a glimpse, I thought, of the bags or something
else in the hole. And, to be plain with you,
Somerton, I believe my door was watched last night,
too.â
âI dare say it was, Gregory;
but, thank goodness, that is over. Have you,
by the way, anything to tell about your visit to that
dreadful place?â
âVery little,â was the
answer. âBrown and I managed easily enough
to get the slab into its place, and he fixed it very
firmly with the irons and wedges you had desired him
to get, and we contrived to smear the surface with
mud so that it looks just like the rest of the wall.
One thing I did notice in the carving on the well-head,
which I think must have escaped you. It was a
horrid, grotesque shapeperhaps more like
a toad than anything else, and there was a label by
it inscribed with the two words, âDepositum
custodi".â