The Fourth Plague (13 page)

“I only came down to-night by car,” he said, “because I received information which led me to believe that the attempt would be made upon you. Now,” he said, “I am ready.”

He stood up.

“I want to examine your little museum,” he said, “and discover what is lost.”

“Oh, I couldn't have lost anything from there,” said Sir Ralph, confidently. “There are alarms in every window, and almost every pane.”

“There are no alarms on the door, are there?” asked Tillizini.

Sir Ralph looked surprised.

“They are not necessary,” he said.

He led the way, and the others followed.

He opened the treasure house, and they flocked in behind him. He was a little in advance of Tillizini, and he turned in the doorway to switch on the light.

At that moment Vera saw the evidence of her criminal folly. On the top of one of the shuttered cases was the little jewelled electric lamp which Sir Ralph had in a fit of unusual generosity given her.

Tillizini saw it too. He was as quick as she, and quicker to move. With one step he stood between the tell-tale lamp and the gaze of the half-awake people in the doorway. His hand went out and covered it.

When Sir Ralph turned the lamp had disappeared.

There was a quick inspection.

“It's gone!” cried the knight. “They have taken the Leonardo!”

“I thought they had,” said Tillizini calmly, “and I thought I should be able to restore it—but, for the moment, that pleasure is denied me.”

“But is it possible?” said Sir Ralph, bewildered. “Nobody could have got in here without my knowing!”

He was almost tearful in his grief.

“It was invaluable,” he said. “It cannot be replaced. It is the only one of the kind in the world. What does it mean—what does it mean, Tillizini? You must tell me everything! I insist upon knowing! I won't be kept in the dark!”

He raved and stormed as though Tillizini had been responsible for the theft. It was some time before he became calmer, and then the Italian was by no means informative.

Vera, silent and watchful, waited. Whatever happened, Festini was safe! By now he would be far on his way to London. He had the parcel, that was enough: she had served him, she asked for no more.

From the moment that Tillizini had put out his hand and covered the lamp she knew that he had guessed her secret. Would he betray her? To her surprise and relief he made no reference to what he must have seen and known.

Yet he was distressed and worried—she saw that—but it was with the greater issue, with the danger which confronted civilization.

He walked up and down the hall—a remarkable figure, with the white bandage encircling his head, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his chin blue and unshaven, his eyes tired, with an infinite weariness.

He took no part in the fruitless discussion as to how the thief effected an entry. He had all the information he required on that subject. He paused in his walk and took from his pocket a shining object—laid it in the palm of his hand and examined it.

Sir Ralph, attracted by the glow of dull gold in his hand, stepped forward with a startled cry.

“Why, that is the locket!” he cried.

Tillizini shook his head.

“It is one very much like it,” he said, “but it is not the one. It is the famous locket that was stolen from the Dublin collection, and which is at the present moment supposed to be at the bottom of the North Sea. It was given to a fellow-passenger on that boat to guard and to return to me. You remember I was charged with the investigation of its disappearance?”

He walked to the fireplace.

There were two overhanging gas-brackets which gave a clear light.

He held the medallion with both hands, using only two fingers of each. He gave it a sharp twist and it fell in two.

Sir Ralph uttered an exclamation.

“Why, I did not know that these things opened!” he said wonderingly.

“I could most devoutly wish that they did not,” said Tillizini grimly.

He damped his finger a little, and drew forth from the locket's interior what looked like four discs of paper, as indeed they were. They were covered with fine writing—so fine that it was almost impossible to read them without the aid of a reading glass.

“Do you understand Italian?” asked Tillizini.

“A little,” said Sir Ralph, “but not enough to read this.”

“Take a good look at it,” said the other; “it is from the hand of the greatest genius that ever lived since Jerusalem was a vassal state of Rome.”

He spoke reverently—almost adoringly—of his famous compatriot.

“That is the hand of Leonardo da Vinci,” he said in a hushed voice.

“And what is it all about?” asked Frank, “and isn't it written backwards?”

He had been examining the microscopic writing with his keen eyes.

Tillizini smiled.

“The master wrote with his left hand invariably—always working back to the left. This will help you.”

He drew from his pocket a tiny mirror in a leather case.

“Read,” said Tillizini.

Frank carried the little discs nearer to the light, and brought them with the mirror closer to his eyes. Marjorie, watching him, saw his lips move as he read the Italian, saw his brows pucker in a puzzled frown, then her lover looked up suddenly.

“Why,” he said, “this is all about a plague.” Tillizini nodded.

“The Great Plague,” he said, “or, as modern scientists call it, the Fourth Plague, which broke out simultaneously in Italy and Ireland in the same year. It was the one plague which our modern doctors are unable to understand or fathom. As a matter of fact, the only man who understood it was Leonardo da Vinci. He was, as you know well, Sir Ralph, more than a painter. He had the scientific mind perfectly developed. He was the first to foresee the coming of the aeroplane and the armoured ship. He was an engineer, a sculptor, a chemist, and—”

He spread out his hands.

“What is the use? I cannot enumerate his qualities,” he said. “He was so above the heads of his contemporaries that they were unable to realize what kind of genius was in their midst. Even posterity can hardly do him justice. He alone understood the Fourth Plague—its meaning and its cause.

“That plague came into existence by the cultivation of a germ, though this, of course, he did not know because the microscope was denied him, but he guessed it—with that wonderful, God-like intuition of his, he guessed it,” said Tillizini, his face glowing with enthusiasm and pride.

“The conditions under which the plague came into being, conditions which were undreamed of, even by those who saw them under their eyes, were revealed to Leonardo da Vinci. Ordinarily,” he went on, “they would in this year of grace be produced.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Sir Ralph.

“Under the modern system,” said Tillizini, “that plague could never appear again. But there are six drugs which you might find in the British Pharmacopoeia,” he continued, “which, if you were to mix them, would produce a gas.”

He spoke impressively, and with the assurance of the practical scientist.

“That gas, passed through a filter of vegetable matter, would set up conditions which made the plague of 1500 possible.”

“Good God!” said Frank. “Do you mean to say that you can produce a plague synthetically?”

Tillizini nodded.

“That is exactly what Leonardo da Vinci discovered. This is the secret.”

He held the flimsy discs in his hands.

“There is no doubt that Leonardo did produce a plague synthetically, two years after. At any rate, some such outbreak occurred in the town where his laboratory was situated. It is believed that, as a result of that plague, Mona Lisa Gioconda lost her life.”

“Oh, that is the woman in the picture,” said Marjorie.

“That is the woman in the picture,” repeated Tillizini, “the one woman in the world whom Leonardo ever loved. The one great softening influence that ever came into his life. His investigations into the cause of the plague he set forth, concisely, on these little filaments. The lockets he fashioned himself. One, as you know—”

“I know the history,” said Sir Ralph. “I was telling Mr. Gallinford only the other day. How extraordinary it is that that old-world story should be revived.”

“But why do the ‘Red Hand' want these lockets?”

“They only want one. Either one will do,” said Tillizini. “Don't you realize? To-morrow, with the aid of a man with even the most elementary knowledge of chemistry, they could devastate London—and not only London, but the whole of England, or, if it please them, the whole of Europe, working from different centres.”

As the little party stood stricken to silence, the full horror of the danger dawning upon them, Tillizini heard a long-drawn sigh.

Vera had stumbled forward in a dead faint, and Frank had just time to catch her before she fell.

XIII. —THE ABDUCTION OF MARJORIE

IT WAS A WEEK after the burglary at Highlawns that a perfectly happy man went whistling to his work. He walked with a brisk step, carrying his lunch in a gaily-coloured handkerchief, with a tin can full of tea for his breakfast. George Mansingham raised his eyes to the sky, which was just turning grey, in thankfulness at his freedom.

Work had been found for him through the medium of Hilary George, at a little farm outside the town. He and his wife had been installed in a tiny cottage on Sir Ralph's estate. To give Sir Ralph his due, he had freely admitted the injustice of the sentence he had passed; if not to the man, at least to himself, which was something; and it needed little pleading on the part of Hilary George, who had taken an interest in the case, to induce him to let his untenanted cottage to the man he had wronged.

Early as the hour was, he found his employer and his son up and about. There is much work to be done before the sun comes up over the edge of the world. There are horses to be fed and groomed, sheep and cattle that require attention, cows to be milked, and milk to be carried.

The sky grew lighter, the sun came up, it seemed to him with a rush, but he was too busy to notice the progress of the time. At half-past eight nature called him to breakfast. He sat down to his frugal meal, first placing two nosebags on the heads of the horses, for he was now engaged in ploughing the ten-acre lot Farmer Wensell farmed. His meal quickly disposed of, he pulled a bulky book from the inside of his jacket pocket and began to read. He had a passion for self-education, and at the moment Merejowski's Forerunner, which Marjorie had lent him, had a special significance, not only for him, but for the whole of England. He was so intent upon the pages of this wonderful romance that he did not notice the girl who was crossing the field with such free strides.

He heard his name called and looked up; then he sprang to his feet, hat in hand.

“You're very absorbed, Mansingham,” smiled Marjorie.

“Yes, miss,” said the other, “it's a wonderful book, and he's a wonderful man. I'm not surprised all the world's talking about him just now.”

“It's not because of his genius that they are speaking of him,” said the girl, gravely.

She carried a paper under her arm; in fact she had been down to Burboro' Station to get the journal.

“It's a terrible business, miss,” said the man. He put the book down. “It doesn't seem possible, in a civilized age, and in a country like England. Is there any fresh news this morning, miss?”

She nodded gravely.

“The ‘Red Hand' have addressed the Premier,” she said, “and they have demanded ten million pounds, an act of indemnity passed by the House of Commons, and freedom to leave the country.”

The man looked incredulous.

“Why, they'll never get that, will they, miss?” he asked. “It's against all reason, a demand like that! Suppose it's not true, suppose they haven't discovered this plague—”

She shook her head.

“There's no doubt about it, Mansingham,” she said. “Mr. Gallinford knows it to be true. He has been investigating, looking up old documents relating to the plague of 1500. These men have it in their power to decimate the whole of England.”

The subject they were discussing filled the minds of men throughout Great Britain that day; nay, throughout Europe. Wherever civilized people foregathered, the cable and the telegraph had carried the news of the threat which overhung the country. It was the final demand of the “Red Hand,” a demand which at first had been pooh-poohed, and had been discussed by Government officials as a problem which called for immediate solution.

The “Red Hand” had acted swiftly. Three days after the locket had disappeared from Burboro' a startling proclamation of the “Red Hand,” printed in blood-red characters, had covered the hoardings and the walls of London. Then it was for the first time that England woke to a realization of the terrible danger which threatened her. It was incomprehensible, unbelievable. It was almost fantastic. Men who read it smiled helplessly as though they were reading something which was beyond their understanding. And yet the proclamation was clear enough. It ran:—

To the People of London.

We, the Directors of the “Red Hand,” demand of the English Government—

(a) The sum of Ten Million Pounds.

(b) An act of indemnity releasing every member of the Fraternity from all and every penalty to which he may be liable as a result of his past actions.

(c) A safe conduct to each and every Member of the “Red Hand,” and facilities, if so required, for leaving the country.

In the event of the Government's refusing, after ten days' grace, we, the Directors of the “Red Hand,” will spread in London the Plague which was known as the Fourth Plague, and which destroyed six hundred thousand people in the year 1500. The bacillus of that plague is in our possession and has been synthetically prepared and tested.

Citizens! Bring pressure on your Government to accede to our demands, and save us the necessity for inflicting this terrible disease upon you!

It bore no signature or seal. It was absurd, of course. Evening papers, necessarily hurried and having little time to analyse its true meaning, made fun of it. But a different note appeared in the comments of the morning papers. Every known scientist and doctor of note who was reachable had been interviewed, and they one and all agreed that there was more than an idle threat in the pronouncement.

The papers called it variously, “The Terror,” “The Threat of the ‘Red Hand,' “Blackmailing London,” and their columns were filled with every available piece of data concerning the terrible scourge which had swept through Italy and Ireland in the year of desolation.

“It's a terrible business,” said Mansingham again. “I am afraid there is something in it.”

The girl nodded.

With a courtesy which is not usually found in men of his class, he accompanied her to the end of the field, and assisted her across the rough stile leading on to the road. She had made a detour from the little station to speak to Mansingham. She was interested in him, and it was a pact between the barrister and herself that she should keep, as he put it, a friendly eye upon his protégé.

It was a glorious morning; the world was flooded with the lemon sunlight of early spring. The trees were bright with vivid green, and primroses and wild violets flowered profusely by the hedgerows. She shook away the gloom and depression to which the thought of this terrible menace had subjected her, and stepped out briskly, humming a little tune.

Half-way across the field, Mansingham, retracing his steps, picked up one of the papers she had been carrying, and hurried after her.

She had a twenty minutes' walk before she reached Highlawns, which stood some quarter of a mile from the town's limits, but she was of an age, and it was such a morning, when one's feet seem to move without effort, and song comes unbidden to the lips.

She heard the whirl of a motor-car behind her, and moved closer to the hedge to allow it to pass. Unconsciously she turned to see who was the occupant. At that moment the car jarred itself to a standstill at her side. A young man, dressed from head to foot in a white linen dust-coat, sprang out.

“Count Festini!” she cried in amazement.

“Count Festini,” he repeated, with his most charming smile. “I wanted to see you, won't you get in? I am going up to the house?” he said.

She hesitated. She would much rather have walked that morning. But it would have been an act of rudeness to have refused his offer of a lift, and besides, it occurred to her that she was already overdue for breakfast, and Sir Ralph's temper of late had not been of the best.

She stepped into the car, and at that moment Mansingham, a little out of breath, broke through the hedge behind it.

“What a curious idea,” Marjorie said, as Festini took his place beside her.

“What is a curious idea?” he asked.

“A closed car on a day like this,” she said. “Why, I thought you Italians loved the sun.”

“We love the sun,” he said, “untempered by such winds as you seem to produce exclusively in England.”

He stepped forward and pulled down a red blind which hid the chauffeur and the road ahead from view. She watched him without understanding the necessity for his act. Then with a quick move he pulled the blinds down on each side of the car. It was now moving forward at a great pace. At this rate, she felt, they must be very near indeed to Highlawns. They had, in fact, passed the house, as the embarrassed Mansingham, clinging to the back of the car and waiting for it to slow up so that he could restore the girl's paper, saw to his bewilderment.

“Why do you do that?” the girl asked coldly. “If you please, Count Festini, let those blinds up.”

“In a little while,” he said.

“I insist,” she stamped her foot. “You have no right to do such a thing.”

She was hot and angry in a moment as the full realization of his offence came to her.

“In a moment,” he repeated; “for the present we will have the blinds down, if you don't mind.”

She stared at him in amazement.

“Are you mad?” she asked, angrily.

“You look very pretty when you're angry,” he smiled.

The insolent assurance in his tone made her feel a sudden giddiness. They must have passed Highlawns by now.

“Stop the car,” she demanded.

“The car will stop later,” he said; “in the meantime,” he caught her hand as she attempted to release the blind, “in the meantime,” he repeated, holding her wrist tightly, “you will be pleased to consider yourself my prisoner.”

“Your prisoner!” exclaimed the affrighted girl. Her face had gone very white.

“My prisoner,” said Festini, pleasantly. “I am particularly desirous of holding you to ransom. Don't you realize,” his eyes were blazing with excitement, “don't you realize,” he cried, “what you are to me? I do. In these last few days,” he went on, speaking rapidly, “I have seen all the wealth that any man could desire. And it is nothing to me. Do you know why? Because there is one thing in the world that I want more than anything, and you are that thing.”

Both his hands were holding her now. She could not move. She was as much fascinated by his deadly earnestness as paralysed by the grip on her arms.

“I desire you,” he said. His voice dropped until it thrilled. “You, more than anything in the world—Marjorie. You are unattainable one way; I must secure you in another.”

The girl shrank back into a corner of the car, watching the man, fascinated. She tried to scream, but no sound came. Festini watched her, his eyes glowing with the fire of his passion. His hot hand was closed over hers almost convulsively.

“Do you know what I'm doing!” he said, speaking rapidly, “do you know what I'm risking for you? Can't you realize that I am imparting a new danger to myself and to my organization by this act? But I want you; I want you more than anything in the world,” he said passionately.

She found her voice.

“You are mad,” she said, “you are wickedly mad.”

He nodded.

“What you say is true,” he answered moodily, “yet in my madness I am obeying the same laws which govern humanity. Something here,” he struck his breast, “tells me that you are the one woman for me. That is an instinct which I obey. Is it mad? Then we are all mad; all animated creation is mad.”

The fierce joy of possession overcame him; she struggled and screamed, but the whir of the engine drowned her voice. In a moment she was in his arms, held tightly to him, his hot lips against her cheeks. He must have caught a glimpse of the loathing and horror in her face, for of a sudden he released her, and she shrank back, pale and shaking.

“I'm sorry,” he said, huskily, “you—you say I am mad—you make me mad.”

His moods changed as swiftly as the April sky. Now he was pleading; all the arguments he could muster he advanced. He was almost cheerful, he swore he would release her, reached out his hand to signal the driver, and repented his generosity.

Then he spoke quickly and savagely of the fate which would be hers if she resisted him. It was the memory of that tall, handsome lover of hers that roused him to this fury. He was as exhausted as she when the car turned from the main road, as she judged by the jolting of the wheels. After ten minutes' run, it slowed down and finally stopped.

He jumped up, opened the carriage door and sprang out, then turned to assist her. A cold, sweet wind greeted her, a wind charged with the scent of brine. She stood upon a rolling down, within a hundred yards the sea stretched greyly to the horizon. There was no house in sight save one small cottage. About the cottage stood two or three men. She uttered a cry of thankfulness and started off towards them, when a laugh from Festini stopped her.

“I'll introduce you myself,” he said sarcastically.

She turned to run towards the sea, but in two strides he was up to her and had caught her by the arm. Then a huge hand gripped his neck, with a quick jerk he was spun round. His eyes blazing with anger, he turned upon his assailant. George Mansingham, tall and broad, grimed with the dust of the road, for he had maintained an uncomfortable position hanging on to the back of the car for two hours, met the vicious charge of Festini with one long, swinging blow, and the Italian went down to the ground stunned.

The girl was dazed by the suddenness of the rescue, until Mansingham aroused her to action.

“This way, miss!” he said.

He caught her unceremoniously round the waist, swung her up as if she were a child, and leapt across a ditch which drained this section of the downs.

“Run!” he whispered. He too had seen the men and guessed they were in the confederacy. The girl gathered up all her reserve of strength and ran like the wind, Mansingham loping easily at her side.