A Gross Carriage of Justice

Chapter 14

The scroll was before them, unrolled with its message side up:

“Now, you will notice,” Sir Percival said in his best courtroom manner, tapping the parchment with his forefinger while his audience listened raptly, “the word ‘Curatores’ — referring, as one can readily imagine, to a place of cures. This is followed by the word ‘Universitatis.’ The reference is clearly to the University Hospital, and since the only University Hospital in this part of the country in those olden days was the same University Hospital that graces Bloomsbury in London, on Gower Street between Grafton Way and University Street, I believe we can be assured that is the place referred to.”

He looked about the room, taking in each attentive and intent face; then, satisfied, he continued.

“So John Avery begins by saying, ‘Praeses Et Curatores Universitatis,’ or, ‘All praise to the University Hospital.’ One might think he was simply thanking them for having worked some miraculous cure on him, but as we soon discover, his praise for the hospital has nothing to do with his health. It is based upon the fact that through the offices of the University Hospital, or, rather, one of its members, he was able to find a place to bury his treasure. Actually,” he added, looking down his patrician nose at Clarence with the faintest touch of disappointment, “I should have thought that much would have been evident to the poorest of scholars.”

“Just get on with it,” Clarence said shortly.

“Yes, of course. Well,” Sir Percival said, “it seems the hospital was not his first choice. He first thought of burying it near the ‘Cantabrigiae Omnibus’ — actually, in those days it was a stagecoach and not the type of omnibus we are accustomed to today — which left on its run to Canterbury, as we all know, from Euston Square, a short block from the hospital. But the site was unsatisfactory; you will note where he complains, ‘Litterae Pervenerint Salutem,’ indicating that the litter there prevented them from saluting — that is, selecting with pleasure — this first site. You must remember,” he added, “that they spoke rather formally in those days.”

They all nodded in agreement. Sir Percival’s finger moved on the scroll to another line.

“However... one of their members — ‘Eique Dedimus,’ or ‘dead Ike’ in the vernacular of the fraternity — then took them to a small concession in the neighborhood — ‘Concessimus Insignia,’ or a concession that sold shoulder patches, and trophies, probably laurel wreaths as well, in those days — but again John Avery was frustrated in his efforts to find a suitable location for the burial of his treasure. We see the words ‘Et Jura Omnia Ad Hunc Gradum Pertinentia,’ which means that be swears all day that the grade — the land, that is — pertained to, or was owned by someone named Ad Hunc, undoubtedly a formidable opponent to frighten John Avery!”

He paused to see how he was doing with his audience. They were watching him, open-mouthed. Patience and faith, Pugh told himself, and went on.

“But John Avery was not a man to give up easily. You will note he mentions this ‘doctoris in Cultore’ — a cultured doctor, and quite obviously on the hospital staff. Either through threats or with the promise of money, John Avery forced the good doctor to give him the use of his quarters, the admissions office of the hospital — note, if you will, the ‘Suis Admisimus’ — and there, of course, is where John Avery, at long last, buried his treasure.”

He shook his head sadly as Harold expelled a taut sigh of suspense-held breath.

“And what did the good doctor get for his help? He and thirteen others, undoubtedly the pirates who buried the gold and most certainly including Dead Ike, were made to die.” He pointed to the words ‘die XIV’ and sighed. “It was all too common a practice in those days among the pirate fraternity, where treasure was concerned.”

“I know. I read that someplace, too,” Clarence said quietly, almost afraid to break the spell. He had been enthralled by the masterful exposition. He pointed. “But what’s that Mensis Juni Anno Domini?”

“Mensis, Juni, Anno, and — last but not least — Domini?” Pugh sadly shook his head. “They were undoubtedly Italian sailors John Avery had brought with him to help bury the treasure and who, poor souls, he had to kill with the others in order to preserve the dark secret of his — literally — bloody gold.”

Clarence nodded, his eyes shining. It all made sense. Had he only studied Latin in high school — but it was too late to worry about things like that at this late date. He put the past aside and pointed again.

“What about those letters at the very end?”

Pugh looked. “Oh, you refer to the MDCCCVC? That,” he said with a glint of triumph in his eye, “together with the cross on the back — which really was not needed” — he glanced at Carruthers a bit reprovingly — “gives us the final clue as to the exact location of the treasure.”

Clarence frowned. “How?”

“We know,” Pugh explained patiently, “that some medical man, undoubtedly under compulsion, gave John Avery the use of the admissions office of the University Hospital for the burial of the gold. He could only have done so had he been in charge of that office at the time; otherwise he would have been treading upon the prerogatives of others, a quite un-English thing to do; and besides, there would not have been the privacy needed for the burial of the gold. But—”

He raised a finger; Clarence and the others watched that finger as if it were the magic wand of Merlin, or the bell of an oboe being played before a straw basket in India.

“But,” Pugh repeated for emphasis, “when did all this happen? The parchment, unfortunately, does not give any dates. But what it does do is give us a healthy clue as to the identity of the doctor. And with this, of course, and the knowledge that he was in charge of the admissions office, we can easily determine who he was, and during which years he functioned. And with these facts we can easily determine where the admissions office was located during his tenure.” He spread his hands. “Simple.”

Clarence nodded in agreement, although he was not convinced. “Right. But — I mean, those letters? Just a few letters? How do they do all that?”

Pugh looked at him with a touch of disappointment.

“I should have thought that was self-evident. The letters are MDCCCVC. Obviously the MD refers to the cultured physician we have been discussing for what seems to be the last few days; his initials can only have been C.C.C.; and he was the proud recipient at some stage in his life, of the Victoria Cross.”

“Yeah. Sure. I’m sorry.” Clarence was ashamed of himself for not having seen something that obvious. “And what about that x on the back of the scroll?”

“Yes. Well,” Pugh said, “the proper word for that is redundant, I believe.”

“Redundant?”

“Yes. The person who put it there did not need to. It did not help in the translation. But never mind.” He turned the map over and exposed the hairline cracks and the small letter x. “My first thought, before giving the message sufficient thought, was that this was a map of a town, or an area of a town, but it is now plain it is merely a plan of the University Hospital as it appeared in the days of John Avery. It also is,” he added, with another reproving glance at Carruthers, “quite useless today. However, fortunately these universities and their hospitals, particularly in England, keep exceedingly accurate records of their history, so a short visit to the hospital library and I am sure I can emerge with the exact location of Dr. C.C.C.’s admissions office in those distant days.”

He brought out his pocket watch and sighed.

“I’m afraid my bridge must suffer this afternoon. I had best get to the hospital library as soon as possible and find the proper spot for us to begin our excavation.”

“Wait a second! Wait a second! I can ask questions at a library as well as you can!” Clarence eyed Sir Percival with distrust. “How do we know you won’t dig up the treasure and disappear?”

“I?” Sir Percival’s eyebrows rose dramatically. “I, Sir Percival Pugh? Disappear?” He made it sound on the order of the pyramids of Cheops disappearing, or the Pacific Ocean. He smiled. “My dear sir, Pughs never disappear; we seldom even fade, even temporarily. I am, frankly, far too well known to disappear. And also, possibly more important from your standpoint, is the packet I saw you place in the safe. If you know anything about me at all, you should know there is no manner in which I would abandon twenty thousand pounds, regardless of other riches to be won at the University Hospital, or anywhere else.”

“Yeah, that’s true—”

“However,” Pugh said blithely, glancing at the safe in the corner with what seemed to be secret amusement, “if you wish to leave and leave us here — with Harold, of course — to guard the safe until your return, please feel free to do so.”

“Hold it! Hold it!” Clarence had often suspected that Harold was privy to the safe’s contents; after all, in Harold’s days in Chicago he had been known as the king of the keisters, with a reputation for tearing safes apart with his bare hands if no other means appeared feasible, although with his skill that contingency seldom arose. And there was something in Pugh’s secret smile that led Clarence to believe the safe and its contents had constituted a major portion of the conversational interchange between Sir Percival and Harold on the trip from Pugh’s home to the farmhouse.

“Yes?” Pugh asked politely.

“Okay, you go—” That still didn’t seem right. “Wait! We’ll both go!” But that would leave Harold here with the safe and those three old buzzards, one of whom Harold was beginning to treat like his long-lost grandfather, and none of whom could be trusted any further than he could lift the Empire State Building. With one hand and a hernia. “Wait a second! I know — Harold will go with you.” But how wise was that? If Harold couldn’t keep his mouth shut — and he couldn’t — and if he knew the combination to the safe — which seemed to be more and more a distinct possibility — and if Pugh got it out of him — which for a trial lawyer like Pugh had to be no great chore...”No,” Clarence said at last, beaten. “You go alone. “But,” he added threateningly, “as you said yourself, you can’t exactly disappear, a man in your position! And I can look a long, long time! Plus your three old pals stay here, and if you don’t come back, and before dark, then—” He drew an illustrative finger across his throat.

Pugh looked at him with a slight frown of puzzlement.

“I cannot imagine why you could think I would not come back. I shall be here with the information in two shakes of a politician’s hand.” He moved toward the door. “And now, if you’ll allow Harold to drive me to the station as being the most efficacious means of transport between this dismal swamp and London, I shall take the train and drive back in my own car. Which, I might mention, is a trifle more in keeping with my position than that miniature people-processor you have out there...”

“Dr. Charles C. Coopersmith, V.C. MD, C.C.C., V.C., as advertised,” Pugh announced modestly. He had deigned to accept a brandy from Harold, who was pouring with a look of profound admiration creasing his battered face. Pugh sipped and put aside his glass, bringing forth a bit of paper. “Here is a sketch I made. Dr. Coopersmith had his office, according to the old records in the hospital library, on the ground floor, obviously, since one could scarcely bury treasure by digging through an upper story. Today that area is just outside of a new building being used as a powerhouse. You will note the small x I have placed on the sketch, indicating a spot exactly three yards north and four yards east of the indicated corner of the building. It is here you must dig. It should give little trouble; the area is unpaved.”

Clarence took the paper and studied it. “Grafton Way? Where’s that? How do we get there?”

“I shall take my friends in my more commodious vehicle and you can follow with Harold in your car. I shall deliver you. When you find the treasure it may be too large for the trunk of your car, in which case we can relieve you of some of the weight.”

“Oh, yeah? We’ll manage,” Clarence said and suddenly thought of something else, as he studied the sketch. “Hey! This x shows a spot outside of the building!”

“I said it was outside,” Pugh said patiently. “One would scarcely expect the inside of a powerhouse to be unpaved.”

“Yeah, but how are we going to dig outside of a building, in the open, without a lot of questions being asked? I figured in a powerhouse, with nobody around, or even just one guy Harold could handle, there’d be no problem. But outside—?”

“Worry not,” Pugh assured him with a wave of one manicured hand. “Should anyone ask you any questions, merely state that you are from the Gas Board, or the Electricity Board, if you prefer.”

“But-at night?”

“People in major cities would be highly suspicious if you dug at any other time,” Pugh said positively. Clarence, thinking about it, knew he was right. Pugh glanced at his watch. “We’d best be going.”

“Right,” Clarence said. He took another look at the sketch, admiring its detail. The entire affair was quite exciting to him; with the sketch in his hand it seemed to move from the dreamlike fantasy he had felt while the parchment was being deciphered, to the hard reality of the possibility of hard cash. Twenty million bucks! He shook his head and then thought of something. “Me and Harold,” he announced. “We’ll do the hard work, the digging. The old men are too old, and you — you don’t have the proper clothes for the job.”

“True,” Sir Percival said, admitting the undeniable fact. “We shall, instead, stand by and cheer on your efforts. Pretend you are Eton and Harold is Harrow. Make a sporting event out of it, so to speak. Possibly even lay a bob or two on who strikes oil — or gold — first—”

“You don’t have to do that,” Clarence said hastily. “No sense in bringing a crowd to watch us. While we’re digging, you go to a pub and enjoy yourself.”

“You’re sure our huzzas would not stimulate you in your efforts?”

“Positive. You go get yourself a beer.”

“If you insist,” Pugh said graciously, “but while we are gone, our thoughts shall ever be with you. Dig, we shall be saying silently, wherever we are; dig and may you enjoy your toil.”

“’Good friend, for Jesu’s sake forbear,’” Simpson quoted, “’to dig the dust enclosed here.’ Shakespeare’s epitaph,” he explained, rather pleased with himself, and then seemed to realize what he had said. “Well, I don’t really mean you should forbear, of course,” he added hastily. “Shakespeare isn’t buried anywhere near the University Hospital.”

“’Dig till you gently perspire,’” Briggs donated. “That’s Kipling.” Kipling had always been more Briggs’s cup of tea than Shakespeare. “Only dig!”

“’Dig we must,’” Harold suddenly said. He had been silent most of the day and the strain was telling. “That’s Con Ed in New York,” he added proudly.

“Yes,” Pugh said, before Carruthers might be tempted to contribute. He glanced at his watch. “But however you do it, you’d best get on with it, or you’ll still be digging after dawn in daylight, and that would, indeed, appear conspicuous.”

“Right!” Clarence said, champing at the bit. “Hal, get that pick and shovel from the barn, and the lantern there, too. And then let’s go!” He picked up the scroll, rolled it into a tube and tucked it into his pocket, turning to Pugh. “You lead the way!”

“A pleasure,” Pugh said, and led the way.

They came down the Western Avenue Extension in tandem, looking somewhat as if Pugh’s limousine might be towing Clarence’s smaller car, came through Lisson Grove to the Marylebone Road, past Regents Park station into Gower Street. Pugh slowed down, turning once again into Grafton Way and drew to the curb. Behind him Clarence also came to a stop; a moment later he was out of the car and inspecting the area. He nodded and bent through the window of the limousine.

“That’s the powerhouse?”

“Exactly.”

“Good. I’ll take it from here,” Clarence said in a low voice. “And thanks. Now you four go off and get yourself a beer or two at some pub, and we’ll get together later. If we don’t see you here, we’ll see you back at the house.” He smiled. “Have a good time.”

“We shall do our best,” Pugh said bravely, and waved a hand. A moment later he had driven off.

Behind him Clarence suddenly frowned as he watched the tail lights of the limousine turn into Tottenham Court Road and disappear. He had expected far more opposition from Pugh, or at least from Carruthers — and definitely from the runt, Briggs — to his being left alone with Harold at the site of the treasure, and he had prepared many fine arguments to get them to leave. It was odd that they left so easily; suspicious, really. It was certain that under no circumstance would he have been talked out of standing right there and watching every move of the opposition had the shoe been on the other foot.

Then he smiled. Pugh, undoubtedly, was on his way back to the farmhouse at top speed, ready to tackle the safe while they worked at the treasure. Well, if that was the case, more power to him. True, there was fifty grand of Clarence’s money in that safe, along with forty each from Pugh and the old men, but that was a drop in the bucket compared to the treasure he was digging for. And if Pugh thought he, Clarence, was going to return to the farmhouse just for that measly sixty grand, if he found the treasure, then Sir Percival was dreaming.

And even if they didn’t find the treasure, Pugh still wouldn’t have that safe open before they got back; it was a lot tougher safe than maybe it appeared. And if he found that Pugh had been monkeying with the safe when he got back — if he found it necessary to go back — then Pugh and the old men were going to lose their share of the dough in the safe! But one thing was sure; Pugh couldn’t bust into the safe, so let them try until hell froze over, or the brandy and champagne ran out at the house, whichever came first.

With a grin he jerked his head at Harold and walked over to mark the spot to start their excavation.