BRITISH MYSTERIES - Fergus Hume Collection: 21 Thriller Novels in One Volume. Fergus Hume

(Continued)

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      “If it is

       Within the circle of this orbed universe,

       I’ll have this secret out before the sun.”

      October 16th.—After great trouble I have at last succeeded in obtaining the rare and costly drugs mentioned; I have mingled them in their due proportions as required, and the result is a colourless liquid like water, which has no taste and a faint perfume as of Eastern spices. To-night I shall try the strength of this drink for the first time, and, if it fulfils its mission, then who so powerful as I! Oh, what glories I anticipate! My soul will leave this heavy clinging garb of clay; it will shake off “this mortal coil,” as the English Shakespeare says, and roam light as air through the infinite splendour of the past. The centuries themselves will roll back before me like the flood of Jordan before the redeemed Israelites. At my bidding will Time, the insatiable, withdraw the many-tinted curtains of the past, and usher me into the presence of bygone days. I shall sweep on wings of light through the countless aeons of the past—yea, even unto the portals of creation.

      October 17th.—I have passed the night under the influence of the elixir, and the result has more than surpassed my thoughts and desires. Oh, how can I paint the sublime majesty of the scenes through which I have passed? Tongue of man cannot describe them, nor pen portray them. They, like the seven thunders in the Apocalypse, have uttered their voices, and must now be sealed up—only the spiritual eye of man can behold them, and it would be vain to give even a faint reflection of their splendours. Weary does the day seem to me, and eagerly do I wait for the cool, calm night, in which I can again throw off this cumbersome dress of flesh and assume my spiritual robes. What monarch is so powerful as I? To the world I am the professor of chemistry at Heidelberg—to myself I am a demigod, for to me alone are shown the visions of the past, and to me alone it is permitted to commune with the mighty dead.

      October 18th.—Once more have I walked through dead ages. My feet have pressed the dusty and silent floors of the palace of Time, and I have wandered spirit-clad through the deserted splendours of his mansion. But yet there remains the future. How can I lift the immutable veil which hangs before the altar of Time, and enter the holy of holies? How can I see with clear eyes the splendid goal reserved for humanity, the triumphant consummation of the design of the world? What mean those last mysterious words of the cryptogram? “If thou wouldst know the future, add V IV X II, Giraldus?” I have searched through the book in vain, and I can find nothing to give me the slightest clue to their solution. What is the drug which will admit me behind the veil of Time, and compel him to reveal his deepest secrets? The secret is evidently contained in the numerals; but how to discover the meaning? I have puzzled over this problem for hours, but as yet I am no nearer the end than before.

      October 19th.—Eureka: I have found it. At last I see the meaning of the mysterious sentence. After a sleepless night I have at last hit on what appears to be the solution of the enigma. After lengthy scrutiny I have come to the conclusion that it means the fifth word of the fourth line of the tenth page of the second volume of Giraldus. But how to get that second volume? I went to the lodgings lately occupied by the young Englishman, and turned over all his books, but was unable to find any trace of the missing volume. I questioned Herr Buechler, and he informed me that the young Englishman had been a student at the University for about two years. (I remembered him, when this was told me, as a thin, cadaverous youth, who attended my chemistry class.) He had left Heidelberg on suddenly, being summoned, as he said, to the death-bed of his father. He might have taken the second volume of Giraldus with him, for he was always reading it. I asked Herr Buechler the reason. He replied that Herr Black was trying to find out the philosopher’s stone, and that Giraldus gave an account of it in his second volume. I remembered then that in the first volume Giraldus says he will touch on that branch of chemistry in the second. After this I had not the least doubt in my mind as to the fate of the second volume of the Giraldus. Only one thing remained to me—to leave for England at once, in order to get it. For such a trivial cause as the loss of a book, was Ito rest contented, and not avail myself of the splendid promise held out to me? A thousand times no; I shall start as soon as possible for England ….

      October 29th.—I have gathered all the information concerning the young Englishman procurable, and that is very little. The information was furnished me by Herr Buechler, who told me that about two months after the departure of Herr Black from Heidelberg, he had received a letter from him, written from the Anchor Hotel, London. This is all the basis I have to go upon; I have to find out the Anchor Hotel, and depend upon the result of my visit there for my next step. It is understood among my friends that I am going for a little trip to England—I have a letter of introduction to Professor Home, of Oxford, and one to Sir Gilbert Harkness, of Ashton Hall, Hampshire. The latter has an immense library, and a passion for collecting rare and curious books. I look to him to assist me in discovering the “Giraldus.” But he shall never know what I want with it—no man shall possess my secret; I shall reign alone over the realms of the past.

      November 10th.—I write this portion of my diary in the Anchor Hotel, London; and I have found out some more particulars concerning the young Englishman. The Anchor Hotel is an obscure inn in a little dark street, and is only frequented by the poorer class. I asked the landlord if he remembered a person named Black staying at his hotel six months ago, and described his personal appearance. The landlord is a big, fat, stupid Saxon, and does not remember, but his wife, a sharp and active woman, does. She said that such a person did reside there for a month. He had paid in advance, but seemed very poor. He was always reading and muttering to himself. He left the hotel one day with his luggage, saying he was going to Black’s book-stall, and since then nothing had been heard of him. Thanking the landlord’s wife, I set off in search of Black’s book-stall. Perhaps Black is his father; he is evidently some relation, or perhaps the book-stall is his own.

      November 11th.—I have hunted all day without success. Black’s book-stall is not very well known, but towards the end of the day I met a policeman who told me that he thought, there was a book-stall of that name, in Van Street. I am going to-morrow to see.

      November 12th.—I have found Black’s book-stall, but not the “Giraldus.” I went to Van Street, and found it there as described by the policeman. It was wedged up between two tall houses, and had a crushed appearance. I entered, and asked to see some book which I named. The owner of the bookstall was a little old man with white hair, dressed in a rusty black suit, who took snuff. I led the conversation up to a certain point, and then asked him if he had a son. He said yes, but that his son was dead. He said that he had sent him to Germany to study about three years ago, but that he had returned to die only three months back. I told him who I was, and the old man seemed pleased. He had been very proud of his son. I asked him if his son had brought home with him from Germany the second volume of the works of Giraldus von Breen. The old man thought for a long time, and replied that he had done so. I asked him where the book now was. He said he had sold it to a literary gentleman about a month ago. I requested the name of the purchaser. The book-stall keeper could not tell me, but he said the gentleman had the largest library of old books in England, and had said he was writing a history of chemistry. It must be Sir Gilbert Harkness. He has a very large library, and I know that he is writing a history of chemistry, for I was told so in Germany. He must have required the “Giraldus” for reference. I thanked the old man, and left the book-stall. There is no doubt in my mind now but that the book I seek is in the library of Sir Gilbert Harkness. I start for his place to-morrow.

      Chapter III.

       In the Library

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      “Behold this pair, and note their divers looks,

       A man of letters and a man of books;

       With various knowledge each is stuffed and crammed. Oh!

       Yes, they are indeed