to the copper box, to the coat-of-arms engraved on it, to the curiously
worded motto appearing on the scroll beneath, all that meant Parslewe.
Pawley, again; whom had Pawley been visiting but Parslewe? And Pawley’s
estimate, so much valued by White Whiskers, that was, of course, in
relation to the age of Parslewe. It was all Parslewe, and it didn’t
require much thought or reflection or analysis on my part to decide
that about and around Parslewe hung a decided mystery.
But of what nature? It seemed to me, judging him by my short yet very
intimate acquaintanceship, that Parslewe was a decidedly frank and
candid man. He had told me a good deal about himself. He had left
England as a very young man, gone East, settled down in Madras, gone
into partnership there with another Englishman, Madrasia’s father,
trading in cotton and indigo, made a big fortune, and, on the death of
his partner and his partner’s wife, had brought Madrasia to England, to
settle down as I had found them. All that seemed a plain and straight
story, with nothing remarkable or mysterious about it. What, then, were
these men after? For there was no doubt in my mind now that Pawley had
come to Kelpieshaw as a spy, seeking some particular information, and
evidently getting what he wanted in an inspection of Parslewe and an
examination of the copper box.
That copper box began to assume a sinister significance in my thoughts
of it and its relation to this affair. But what was its relation? It
was a box, and it was made of copper. Beautifully made, to be sure,
and by some man who had taken vast artistic pride in his work; the
engraving of the coat-of-arms, too, was beautifully done. But, after
all, it was only a copper box! What was there about it, then, or
appertaining to it, that made these men, if not exactly keen about it,
at any rate remarkably interested in the mere fact of its existence?
I saw no more of the two men in the smoking-room that night, except
that I caught a glimpse of White Whiskers, as I had come to call him,
going bedward at the same time as myself, and on my corridor. I saw
him again next morning, in the coffee-room, at breakfast; he looked
bigger, more solemn and judicial than ever. But no Pawley came to him;
I wondered what had become of Pawley. Perhaps he had gone back to sneak
round Kelpieshaw again--anyway, I myself was going back there as soon
as my canvas was ready. And I had already made up my mind that when I
got there I should tell Parslewe that at Newcastle there were people
talking about him and his copper box.
The man who was making my canvas had his shop in a side street off
Haymarket; I set off to it a little before noon, intending to get my
parcel, return to the station, and depart for Wooler. But half-way up
Percy Street I suddenly saw White Whiskers, a little way in front of
me. With him was the man with whom I had seen him in conversation the
night before. Once more they were in conversation; it seemed to be
earnest and intense, judging by their attitude; White Whiskers had his
arm linked in that of his companion, to whom he bent, confidently; the
other listened with rapt attention. Out of sheer curiosity I followed
them. They turned, eventually, into St. Thomas Street, and then began
to look at the names over the shops. Finally, White Whiskers raised
his umbrella and pointed to a sign; a moment later they entered the
shop beneath it. And from a little distance I saw what was on the sign:
BICKERDALE, WHITESMITH AND COPPERSMITH.
Copper again! copper box, coppersmith--the whole thing was becoming
more mysterious than ever! Here were these men, who had been talking
about a copper box the night before, now entering the shop of a man who
worked in copper. Why? I wanted to know. And instead of going off on
my own proper business to the artist’s colourman’s shop, I crossed the
street, walked on a little, turned, and kept an eye on the door into
which White Whiskers and his companion had vanished.
They were in there about half-an-hour. I stuck to my post, though I
knew I was running the risk of losing my train. At last they came out.
They came nodding and wagging their heads as if whatever had transpired
within had settled the question--White Whiskers, in particular,
looked uncommonly satisfied with himself. They went away, round the
corner into the Haymarket--and thereupon, with a desperate resolution
generated by sheer curiosity, I boldly entered the coppersmith’s
establishment. Its proprietor, an uncomfortably canny-looking sort of
person, elderly and spectacled, stood behind the counter; his keen eyes
fell upon me at once with such shrewd inquiry that I felt decidedly
embarrassed, and knew myself to be growing red about cheeks and ears.
“Oh, ah, er,” I began lamely. “I--that is--have you any old articles in
copper, you know--curiosities and that sort of thing--to sell?”
It seemed to me that he took an unconscionable time in replying. When
he did reply, it was with a curt monosyllable.
“No!”
“The fact is I--sometimes--go in for collecting such things,” I said.
“I----”
He suddenly bent forward across his counter, and gave me a keen,
searching look.
“What are you after, young man?” he asked severely. “I saw
you--watching those gentlemen.”
IV
_Midnight Warning_
I glanced round, involuntarily, at the window of the man’s shop, and
saw that, there being little in it, he would certainly have been able,
while talking to White Whiskers and his companion, to command a view
of the other side of the street, and so had doubtless seen me hanging
about. But his curt manner helped to disperse my embarrassment and
awkwardness, and I boldly took another line. After all, I had--as far
as I knew--as good a right to ask questions as White Whiskers had.
“Well, supposing I was watching them?” I retorted. “I may have had a
good reason, and very good reason! What do you say to that?”
He began to shift about the things on his counter, aimlessly. I
remained watching him. Suddenly he looked up, nervously, but defiantly.
“You’re not going to get anything out of me!” he said. “I’ve said my
say already, and I’ve been warned against such as you.” Then he assumed
a sneering look and tone. “Old copper articles!” he flung at me. “You
should think shame of yourself coming in on a man with false excuses
like that!”
I saw now that there was something, and I gave him a thrust that was
intended to go right home.
“Copper is a good word!” said I. “And I wonder if you’ve ever seen or
handled an old copper box, a few inches square, with a coat-of-arms
engraved on it, and an unusual motto beneath that? Come, now!”
He stood straight up at that, and I knew that he had seen such a thing,
and that the two men who had just gone had been at him about it. And
having made this discovery, and without another word, I turned on my
heel and went swiftly out of the shop, leaving him staring after me.
But if he was bewildered, so was I. What on earth was all this mystery,
plainly centring round Parslewe and his copper box? I had walked up
the street, turned a corner, and gone far down another street before
I remembered my canvas and my train. I turned back, got the canvas,
and made for the hotel and the station. And of course, through poking
my nose into other people’s affairs, I had missed the train to Alnwick
and Wooler, and there wasn’t another until late in the afternoon.
So I lunched in the hotel, and idled the time away there--chiefly
wondering about this thing. Parslewe--Pawley--White Whiskers--the
coppersmith--and that infernal copper box in the middle of them! What
was the mystery attached to them and it? Was it fraud?--was it some
matter of felony?--was it murder? I was going to tell Parslewe what I
had discovered, anyway, and as quickly as possible. But I had to cool
my heels until between five and six o’clock, and when at last I walked
out on the platform to my train I saw White Whiskers standing at the
door of a first-class carriage talking to the man who had gone with
him to the coppersmith’s shop. White Whiskers had his bag and his rug
in the carriage; I glimpsed them as I passed--evidently, he was going
northward by my train, and was, of course, on his way to Kelpieshaw.
I had one of the hotel porters with me, carrying my bag and my canvas,
and when he had found me a seat I engaged his attention.
“There are two gentlemen standing at the door of a first-class
compartment up there,” I said. “Do you happen to know who they are?”
The man looked, and nodded.
“Don’t know the older gentleman, sir,” he replied. “He stopped at the
hotel last night, but I didn’t hear his name mentioned. The other
gentleman’s Mr. Pebling, sir.”
“And who,” I asked, “is Mr. Pebling?”
“Lawyer, sir--well-known lawyer in the town,” he answered. “Pebling,
Spilsby and Pebling, solicitors--Grey Street. Everybody knows him.”
Accordingly, I departed for Kelpieshaw in an atmosphere of Law and
Mystery--I imagined that atmosphere centring thickly around White
Whiskers in his first-class compartment (I, as a matter of principle
rather than pence, travelled third) and mingling with the smoke of his
very excellent cigars. I would have given a good deal to pick the
brains that lay behind his big, solemn, consequential countenance, but
I knew that I should probably hear much on the morrow. For that he was
bound for Kelpieshaw I had no more doubt than that our train was a slow
one.
It was late when we got to Wooler--so late that I had already decided
to spend the night there and go on to Parslewe’s in the early morning.
I had some notion, too, that White Whiskers would, of course, repair to
the principal hotel, whither I was also bound, and that there I might
find out a little more about him--perhaps even get into conversation
with him; from what I had seen of him at Newcastle, I judged him to be
a talkative man, and at Wooler he would have small chance of indulging
his propensities. Now if I could only foregather with him over a
smoking-room fire----
But no sooner had the train come to a halt in Wooler station than I
saw that White Whiskers was expected, and was met. He was met, and
very politely--almost reverently--received by a tall military-looking
man in a smart, dark uniform, braided and buttoned, who appeared to
consider it an honour when White Whiskers--as I saw plainly--extended
two fingers to him. They conversed for a minute or two; then,
talking confidentially, as it appeared, they set off together. And
being just behind them as they left the station, I indulged in more
inquisitiveness.
“Who is that in the dark uniform?” I inquired of the clerk who was
collecting the tickets at the entrance.
“Mr. Hilgrave,” he answered, promptly. “Inspector of police. Nice
gentleman!--not been here so very long, though.”
I went on to the hotel, wondering what on earth White Whiskers wanted
with the local police inspector. And upon getting into the hotel,
I found them together. White Whiskers was just beginning a belated
dinner in the coffee-room; Hilgrave sat with him, refreshing himself
with a whisky-and-soda, and listening with apparent deep interest to
his talk. I got some warmed-up dinner myself, but I did not overhear
anything that was said between the two. The conversation seemed to be
chiefly one-sided; White Whiskers evidently explaining and detailing,
and the police inspector nodding his comprehension. But towards
the close of this episode I got some information. White Whiskers,
bringing his dinner to an end, summoned the waiter and gave him some
audible commands. He must be called, with hot water and tea, at seven
o’clock in the morning. Breakfast must be ready for him at precisely
eight--sharp to the minute. And at nine o’clock the best car in the
place must be at the door to take him to Kelpieshaw. How far away was
this Kelpieshaw?--nine or ten miles by the road? Very good!--then nine
o’clock, precisely.
These things settled, White Whiskers turned to Hilgrave, bland and
affable.
“Well,” he said, now speaking in quite audible accents, the occasion
for secrecy having evidently passed, “what do you say to a cigar?--I
suppose there’s a smoking-room here?”
“Very kind of you, Sir Charles,” replied the inspector. “Smoking-room
just across the hall.”
When they had gone away, I thought things over--rapidly. It was then
close upon ten o’clock, and I already knew sufficient of the domestic
habits of Kelpieshaw as to know that they kept early hours there. But I
felt, more from instinct than anything, that Parslewe ought to be put
in possession of my news, and that I ought not to leave the imparting
of it until next morning, however early. So going out into the hall,
I got hold of the boots, and, taking him aside, made inquiries about
my chances of getting a car, late as it was. He got one for me--with
considerable delay and difficulty--but I took good care not to let him
nor its driver know where I was going until I had got clear of the
hotel.
The last stage of the road to Kelpieshaw was of such a nature that a
car could do no more than crawl over it, and it was nearly midnight
when I saw the tower of the old house standing dark and spectral
against a moonlit sky. As I expected, there was not a light to be seen
in any of the windows, not even in those of the upper part of the tower
wherein Parslewe had his library. I felt very lonely when the car had
driven off, leaving me in the solitude of the wind-swept courtyard. I
knocked on the turret door several times without getting any response,
and knowing the thickness of the walls and doors as I did, I began to
fear that no summons of mine would be heard, and that I should have to
camp out in one of the buildings. But my knocking roused the dogs; they
set up a great barking, and at that a window opened, and Tibbie Muir’s
voice, wrathful enough, demanded to know what ill body was below.
“Don’t be angry, Tibbie,” I called. “It’s I, Mr. Craye. Tell your
master I’m back, and let me in.”
It was Parslewe himself who presently came down. He seemed in no way
surprised, and he treated me to one of his sardonic grins.
“Well, young master?” he said, holding up his lamp and giving me a
careful inspection as I stepped within. “You look a bit way-worn!”
Then, in his eccentric, jocular fashion, and as he bolted and locked
the big door behind me, he began to spout, dramatically:--
“‘Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless,
So dull, so dead, so woe-begone,
Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night,
And would have told him half his Troy was burn’d!’
“But go up, Craye, my lad, and we’ll see if a drop of whisky’ll revive
you!”
He laughed again and pushed me up the stair; I went, willingly.
“Mr. Parslewe!” said I. “I’m neither dull, nor dead, nor woe-begone,
but I am cold, for the night’s bitter, and that miserable old car I got
is a trap for draughts. And as to Priam and Troy, I’ve a tale to tell
you that beats that!”
“Aye?” he said. “Well, a midnight tale is generally one that’s worth
hearing. And if you’re cold, I believe there’s a bit of fire burning,
and we’ll soon improve it. But----”
We were at the head of the stair by then, and Madrasia suddenly called
from her room.
“Jimmie!--is that him?” she demanded, careless of grammar in her
eagerness. “And what’s he after at this time?”
“Aye, it’s me!” I called out, catching at her spirit. “And I’m safe and
sound, too, with a pack of adventures----”
“That’ll keep till morning,” interrupted Parslewe, pushing me into the
room. “Go to sleep again, my girl!” He shut the door on us, drew the
heavy curtain across it, and after poking up the fire and lighting the
lamp, helped us both to whisky from the decanter and lighted his pipe.
“Aye, and what’s the tale, Craye?” he asked.
I had been considering the telling of that all the way from
Wooler--debating the best way of putting the various episodes before
him. It seemed to me that the best fashion was one of consecutive
narrative, leaving him to draw his own inferences and conclusions. So
I began at the beginning, which was, of course, at the point where I
first saw Pawley awaiting the arrival of the train from the south. I
watched him carefully as I told the story, being anxious to see how
it struck him and how things that had impressed me impressed him. And
as I went on from one stage to another I was conscious of a curious,
half-humorous, half-cynical imperturbability about him; his face
remained mask-like, except for a sly gleam in his expressive eyes, and
he never betrayed any sign of being surprised or startled but once,
when his lips moved a little at the first mention of the copper box.
And twice he smiled and nodded his head slightly--the first time was
when I mentioned the coppersmith’s shop, whereat he stirred a bit and
said softly, “Aye, that would be old Bickerdale!” and the second when
I said that the police inspector had addressed White Whiskers as Sir
Charles. He laughed outright at that.
“Aye, likely enough,” he muttered. “He’s the sort that would turn out
Sir Charles, for sure! But I hadn’t heard of it.”
“That’s the lot, Mr. Parslewe,” I concluded. “I left Sir Charles and
the police inspector smoking their cigars and drinking their whisky.
I saw them through the open door of the smoking-room, and they were
hob-nobbing comfortably enough. And then I raced through the night--to
tell you!”
“Aye!” he said. “But to tell me--what?”
“What I have told you,” I replied.
He gave me a queer, questioning look.
“Sounds very mysterious, my lad, eh!” he said.
“To me--uncommonly so!” said I.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and then took a pull at his glass.
“You’ve no doubt amused yourself with theories about it?” he suggested.
“No!” I retorted. “It’s too deep for theories, Mr. Parslewe. Too deep
for me to theorise about, I mean.”
“Aye--well, we’ll say speculate, then, instead of theorise,” he
remarked, drily. “You’ve indulged in speculations?”
I pointed towards the sideboard behind him.
“I’ve certainly been wondering what on earth that copper box has to
do with it!” said I. “Here’s a fat, solemn, self-important old buffer
travels--possibly all the way from London--to talk about a copper box
in a Newcastle hotel! A Newcastle shopkeeper starts with surprise when
I mention a copper box to him! And there--with the firelight glinting
on it--there is the copper box!”
“Aye!” he said. “Aye, there it is--and there it’ll remain, master!” He
closed his lips in a tight, firm fashion that I had already come to
know very well, in spite of our brief acquaintance, and when he relaxed
them again it was to smile in his sweetest fashion. “But that doesn’t
explain anything, Craye, does it?” he remarked.
“Explains nothing--to me,” I assented.
He got up, threw two or three small logs of wood on the fire, and
standing with his back to it, thrust his hands in the pockets of his
dressing-gown. He puffed at his big pipe for a while, staring across
the shadowy corners of the room, and suddenly he laughed.
“You can tell all that to Madrasia in the morning,” he said. “It’ll
amuse her.”
“Mystify her, you mean!” I said.
“Well, both, then--they come to the same thing,” he answered.
“Please her, too; she thought--being a woman, and having feminine
intuition--that Master Pawley was--well, something of what he seems to
be.”
“Then you think Pawley came here of set purpose--design?” I asked.
“Maybe!” he answered, coolly. “Didn’t strike me at the time. I took the
fellow for being what he professed to be--though I certainly wasn’t
impressed by his antiquarian knowledge. But then, the man described
himself as a neophyte, a novice. Well, he was--very much so!”
“My opinion is that Pawley was a spy!” said I.
It was a direct challenge to him to let me into his mind. But as soon
as I had thrown it down, I saw that he was not going to take it up.
There was that about his attitude which showed me that he was not going
to say one word in elucidation of the mystery--then, at any rate. But
just then I remembered something.
“I forgot this!” said I--“It didn’t seem of much moment at the
time--but it’s this: when Pawley was here, you left him and me
together, here, in this room, while you went upstairs to write down
some notes or memoranda for him. During your absence he picked up the
copper box, and after some remarks on its workmanship asked me if I
knew whose coat-of-arms that was, and some other questions about it. He
was--suspiciously interested.”
“How do you mean--suspiciously?” he asked.
“It struck me--perhaps afterwards--that Pawley could have answered the
question himself,” I replied. “Although he asked me, he knew--already.”
“Then the gentleman knew a bit more about heraldry than he did about
sepulchral barrows!” he remarked with a sardonic laugh. “Well, tell
that, too, to Madrasia in the morning--she likes mysteries in fiction
and here’s one in real life. Finish your whisky, my lad, and let’s go
to bed.”
I knew then that it was hopeless to get any explanation from Parslewe.
I knew, too, that he could tell me a lot, if he wanted. But after all
it was no concern of mine and I rose.
“I got the canvas I wanted,” I told him, as we were leaving the room.
“That’s all right.”
“Then you can make a start on your picture,” he answered. “Good night,
master!”
He grinned knowingly at me as we shook hands at the door of my room;
then he moved off to his own. His door closed. The queer old house
became silent.
I slept like a top the remainder of that night--so soundly, indeed,
that it was late when I awoke. I had to hurry over my shaving and
dressing, but after all, I was first in the parlour. A cheery fire
burned in the hearth; the table was laid for breakfast, and on my plate
I saw an envelope; another lay before Madrasia’s. I snatched mine up,
recognised Parslewe’s crabbed writing, and broke the seal--to stare and
wonder at what he had written on a half-sheet of paper within.
“DEAR CRAYE,” ran his note, “you’re a good fellow and dependable.
Just take good care of the girl until you either hear from or
see me again. What you told me early this morning inclines me to
believe that I’d better attend to a possibly urgent affair, at
once.--_Vale!_--J. P.”
I had scarcely read and comprehended this truly remarkable message when
Madrasia ran into the room. She was singing--some old country song. It
came to a dead stop as she saw me pointing to the envelope that lay by
her plate.
V
_Sir Charles Sperrigoe_
I stood silently watching Madrasia as she broke open her letter, drew
out the scrap of paper inside (Parslewe, as I had already noticed, was
an absolute miser in his use of stationery, and made any stray fragment
serve his immediate purpose), and read whatever was there written. The
slight pucker of astonishment between her eyebrows deepened to a frown,
and with a gesture that was not exactly definable she tossed the paper
across to me.
“What on earth does that mean?” she exclaimed. “And where is he?”
I glanced at this second communication; it was comprised in one line--
“_Be a good girl and do as you’re told._”
“Do as you’re told!” she added. “Good heavens!--who’s to do the
telling?”
I silently handed her my letter; she looked more astonished than ever
when she read it.
“What does it all mean?” she asked. “Has--but he evidently has gone
away. In consequence of something you told him, too! What? But wait!”
She rang a small hand-bell that stood on the corner of the breakfast
table; before its sharp tinkling had died away the old woman came
hurrying in.
“Tibbie!” said Madrasia. “Has Mr. Parslewe gone away? When?”
“He went off at five o’clock this morning, Miss,” replied Tibbie. “He
just tapped of me and said he’d be away a day or two, likely, and that
was all. I looked out of the window when he’d gone, and I saw him
riding off on his pony.”
“Which way?” demanded Madrasia.
“Across the moor, Miss,” answered Tibbie. “Roddam way.”
Madrasia hesitated a moment, nodded, and turning to the table began to
pour out the coffee; the old woman withdrew. And as a beginning of my
wardership, I turned my attention to the hot dishes.
“Fish or bacon?” I inquired.
“Hang the fish--and the bacon!” retorted Madrasia. “Well, fish, then.
What is all this mystery? What did you tell him last night?”
“This morning, rather,” said I. “Early this morning. Well, I was to
tell you. He said you’d enjoy it. Better than any fiction! But what
it’s all about, I don’t know. I wish I did! Perhaps you do.”
“I may do, when you tell me,” she answered. “Go on!”