moment of recognising Pawley to finding Parslewe’s note on my plate.
At the first mention of the copper box she turned and gazed at that
mysterious article, reposing in its usual place on the sideboard; when
I made an end of my narrative she stared at it again.
“Just so!” I said. “I wish it could speak. But--it can’t. And what
I want to know is precisely what you want to know--what is it all
about? A first-class mystery, this, anyway! Pawley comes, and is seen
examining the copper box. I go to Newcastle, and see Pawley meet a
fat-faced, white-whiskered old party. I hear this person talk of the
copper box to another man, who turns out to be a solicitor. I have
a passage-at-arms with a coppersmith, who, I feel sure, has seen and
known the copper box--I have other passages. I come home and tell
Parslewe--and Parslewe flees in the night, leaving me in charge of----”
“Thank you, but he’d far better have left you in charge of me!” she
said. “And don’t you forget it--while he’s away, I’m boss!--never
mind what he said--and you’ve got to be as good and obedient as they
make ’em! I countermand his order, so you’re deposed--by me! But--I’m
thinking.”
“What about?” I inquired meekly.
She pointed her fork at the sideboard.
“The copper box!” she answered. “What else?”
I helped myself to more bacon, and ate for a while in silent meditation.
“Perhaps it’s bewitched!” I observed at last. “Sort of Arabian Nights’
business, you know.”
“Don’t be silly!” she commanded. “The more I think of it, the more I’m
sure this is, or may be, a very serious affair. Now to begin with, the
copper box wasn’t always where it is, nor in this house at all.”
“No?” I said, inquiringly.
She remained silent a moment or two, evidently reflecting. Then she
turned to me with an air of confidence.
“As Jimmie put me under your charge,” she said ingratiatingly, “I----”
“You told me just now that his orders were countermanded, and that you
were boss,” said I.
“Oh, well! You know what I mean!” she answered. “Anyway, as he said
you were to tell me all about this extraordinary adventure, I suppose
there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be equally straightforward with you.
It seems to me that we’re at a pass where frankness is advisable.”
“Absolutely necessary, I should think,” said I.
“Very well,” she went on. “I remember the copper box coming here.”
“You do?” I exclaimed. “Ah!”
“Jimmie,” she continued, “to give him the name by which I’ve called him
ever since I was that high, is an eccentric person--very! Much more
eccentric than you’ve any idea of. He has fits--not in the medical or
pathological sense, but fits all the same. They take various forms. One
form is that of going off, all of a sudden, by himself--the Lord knows
where!”
“As in the present instance,” I suggested.
“To be sure! This,” she said, “is by no means the first time Tibbie
and I have been suddenly bereft of his presence. He departs! and no
more’s heard or seen of him until a reappearance as unexpected as his
disappearance. And usually--indeed, I suppose always--when he returns
he brings things with him.”
“The thing is obvious,” I remarked. “He’s been hunting for curiosities.”
“Perhaps! But why in such secrecy?”
“Part of the game. The more secrecy, the more pleasure. Human
nature--antiquarian human nature.”
“Well, about twelve or fifteen months ago he was away like that,”
she said. “I don’t know where he’d been, he never tells. But when he
returned the copper box was with him. He polished it up the night
he came home. Of course, I admired it, equally, of course, I asked
him where he’d got it. All he said was what he always does say, he’d
just picked it up. Off the street, no doubt, or on the moor, or in an
omnibus, or on a train! But that’s Jimmie. And on the same occasion
he brought back some half-dozen old books--very old, apparently rare
books--about which I noticed a certain thing, though I never said a
word to him about it--no good!”
“What was the certain thing?”
“The books are upstairs in his library; you may have seen them. In each
there’s a book-plate with a coat-of-arms, and a legend exactly like
those on the copper box.”
“I’ve seen the books. I saw the coat-of-arms, too,” said I. “Odd!
And--significant.”
“Why significant?”
“Looks as if they’d all come from the same source. And he didn’t tell
you anything as to where he got these things?”
“He never tells anybody anything as to where he gets things--never!
He just brings them in and puts them down, somewhere--and that’s all.
However, the copper box disappeared for a while--not so very long ago.
I noticed that, and he vouchsafed to tell me that he’d taken it to be
repaired by a man in Newcastle.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed. “Now I see some light! That man was Bickerdale, the
coppersmith. Of course.”
“I’d thought of that already--thought of it as soon as you told me of
the Bickerdale episode. But--what then?”
“Um! That’s a very big question,” I answered. “What, then, indeed! But
I think somebody is very much concerned about that copper box--why,
only heaven knows. This fatuous, white-whiskered old person, for
instance. And that reminds me--he’ll turn up here this morning, sure as
fate. What are we to say to him?”
“Why say more than that the master is away?” she asked.
“That won’t satisfy him,” said I. “He’s a pertinacious old party. And
he’s Sir Charles Somebody-or-other, and he’ll resent being treated as
if he were a footman leaving cards. Let me suggest something.”
“Well--what?” she asked dubiously. “We’ve got to be careful.”
“We’ll be careful enough,” said I. “Let’s do this. If the old chap
comes--and come he will--let Tibbie bring him up here. We’ll receive
him in state; you’ll, of course, play the part, your proper part, of
chatelaine; I, of guest. You’ll regret that Mr. Parslewe is away from
home--indefinitely--and we’ll both be warily careful to tell the old
man nothing. But we’ll watch him. I particularly want to see if he
looks for, sees, and seems to recognise the copper box. Pawley will
have told him where it’s kept--on that sideboard; now let’s see if his
eyes turn to it. He’ll come!--and before long.”
“Good!” she agreed. “Now, suppose he gets cross-examining us?”
“Fence with him--tell him nothing,” I answered. “Our part is--Mr.
Parslewe is away.”
We finished breakfast; the table was cleared; we waited, chatting.
And before long a loud knocking was heard at the door of the turret.
Tibbie Muir, already instructed, went down to respond to it. Presently
we heard ponderous footsteps on the winding stair. Tibbie looked in;
behind her loomed a large, fur-collar-coated bulk.
“There’s a gentleman calls himself Sir Charles--Sir Charles----” began
Tibbie.
The bulk came forward, hat in hand.
“Allow me, my good woman,” it said unctuously. It looked round in the
subdued light of the old coloured-glass windows, and seeing a lady,
bowed itself. “Sir Charles Sperrigoe!” it announced. “Ahem! to call on
Mr. Parslewe, Mr. James Parslewe.”
“Mr. Parslewe is not at home,” replied Madrasia. “He is away--on
business.”
Sir Charles showed his disappointment. But he glanced keenly at
Madrasia and bowed again, more politely than ever.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I have the honour of seeing Miss Parslewe?”
“No,” answered Madrasia. “My name is Durham. I am Mr. Parslewe’s ward.”
Sir Charles looked at me. I was purposely keeping myself in the shadowy
part of the old room; it was darkish there, and I saw that he did not
recognise me, though he had certainly set eyes on me at Newcastle and
at Wooler.
“This young gentleman,” he suggested. “Mr. Parslewe’s son, perhaps?”
“No!” said Madrasia. “A visitor.”
Sir Charles looked sorry and discomfited. He fidgeted a little,
nervously.
“Will you sit down, Sir Charles?” asked Madrasia.
He sat down. He took a chair between the centre table and the
sideboard. He looked at Madrasia with interest--and, I thought, with
decided admiration.
“Thank you!” he said. “I--ah, deeply regret Mr. Parslewe’s absence. I
have heard of Mr. Parslewe--as a distinguished antiquary.”
“Oh!” said Madrasia. “Distinguished?”
“Distinguished!” cooed Sir Charles. “Distinguished!”
“Odd!” remarked Madrasia. “I thought he was only a dabbler. That’s what
he considers himself to be, I’m sure.”
Sir Charles waved a fat, white hand.
“Prophets, my dear young lady, are said to have no honour in their own
country,” he observed with a knowing smile. “And your truly learned
man usually considers himself to be a novice. What says one of my
favourite poets?
“‘Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much;
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.’
--Just so--precisely!”
“You are fond of poetry, Sir Charles?” suggested Madrasia.
“Eminently so! And of antiquities,” assented our caller. “And being in
the neighbourhood, and hearing of Mr. Parslewe, I did myself the honour
of waiting upon him in the hope of being able to pay him my respects,
and to----”
“Just so!” broke in Madrasia. “So very kind of you! I don’t think we
were quite aware that my guardian’s fame as an antiquary had spread,
but he appears to be getting celebrated. You are the second person who
has called to see him, on the same errand, within the last few days.
The other,” she continued, “was a gentleman named--er--Pawley. Mr.
Pawley.”
“Ah!” said Sir Charles. “Indeed!--I am not acquainted with
many antiquaries; I am something of a recluse. And, perhaps,
Mr.--ah--Crawley--oh, Pawley?--was fortunate enough to find Mr.
Parslewe at home and to enjoy the benefit--just so, just so! And I--am
unfortunate.”
“Mr. Parslewe went away this morning,” remarked Madrasia, in
matter-of-fact tones. “He may return to-morrow; he mayn’t. He mayn’t
return for a week; he may. He’s uncertain. But I’ll certainly tell him
you’ve called, Sir Charles.”
“Thank you, thank you!” said Sir Charles. “Much regret--and I don’t
know how long I shall remain in these parts. Delightful, romantic
situation--most romantic! You have been here long?”
“Ever since we came from India,” replied Madrasia, forgetting our
compact. “Some few years ago.”
“Ah, Mr. Parslewe came from India, did he?” asked Sir Charles eagerly.
“But you?--you were surely not born under those burning skies?”
“I was!” answered Madrasia, with a laugh.
“Of English parents, of course,” suggested Sir Charles. “Of
course!--the English rose!--ah, the English rose! No one, Miss Durham,
could mistake you for anything else than that!”
I coughed--discreetly. And Madrasia took the hint.
“I’m sorry Mr. Parslewe is not at home,” she began. “Can I give him any
message?”
Sir Charles drew out a card case, and laid a card on the table. Then
he rose, and we both saw his eyes turn to the copper box. He gave it a
good, straight glance.
“Thank you, thank you!” he answered. “My card, and my compliments
and regrets, and perhaps I may do myself the pleasure of waiting
upon him again, if he returns soon. I should much like to see
his--ah--collections.”
Madrasia picked up the card.
“And you are staying, Sir Charles?” she asked.
“For a day or two at the hotel at Wooler,” he replied. “After that,
perhaps, for a few days in Berwick. The address at Wooler will find me,
at any rate, during my stay in these parts; letters would be forwarded.”
He was still looking at the copper box, and presently he became
mendacious.
“What a truly beautiful old sideboard!” he remarked, going nearer to
that article of furniture. “Mr. Parslewe is, I see, a connoisseur in
Chippendale work.”
He went nearer to the sideboard, but we both saw that he was not
looking at it at all; he was staring at the coat-of-arms on the copper
box.
“Delightful pursuit, collecting,” he said, straightening himself.
“Well, I must run away. Pleasure must not be put before business, and I
have a car waiting, and business at the other end of a drive.”
He shook hands with Madrasia with--I thought--unnecessary cordiality.
Madrasia turned to me.
“Perhaps you’ll see Sir Charles safely down the stair?” she suggested.
“It’s rather dangerous if you don’t know it.”
I preceded Sir Charles down the stair and opened the door at its
foot. It had been shadowy in the room, and more so on the stair, but
there was a full glare of spring sunlight on us as we emerged into
the courtyard, and now, seeing me clearly for the first time, the old
gentleman let out a sudden sharp exclamation.
“Hallo, young man!” he said, staring at me, while his face flushed
under the surprise of his recognition. “I’ve seen you before! Last
night, at the hotel in Wooler. And--and--somewhere before that!”
“In Newcastle, no doubt,” said I. “I saw you there two or three times.”
He stopped dead in the middle of the courtyard, still staring.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “The girl up there said--a visitor!”
His bland manner and suave tone had gone now, and he was almost
hectoring in his attitude. I looked at him wonderingly.
“Miss Durham described me as what I am,” I answered. “A visitor!”
“Parslewe’s visitor?” he asked.
“Mr. Parslewe’s visitor--certainly,” said I. “His guest.”
“How long have you known Parslewe?” he inquired.
But his manner was getting somewhat too much for my patience.
“Really!” I began. “I fail to see why----”
He suddenly tapped me on the chest with a strange sort of familiarity.
“Look you here, young man!” he said. “You say you saw me in Newcastle.
With anybody?”
“Yes!” I answered, somewhat nettled. “I saw you with the man who called
himself Pawley.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “And you saw me last night at Wooler, with the
police inspector. Did you come here and tell that--and the Pawley
incident--to Parslewe? Come now!”
“I did!” said I. “Why not?”
Without another word he strode off to his car, motioned to its driver,
and went away.
VI
_The Irrepressible Newsman_
I watched Sir Charles Sperrigoe drive off along the moorland road, and
closing the turret door, went slowly and full of meditation up the
stair to the parlour. Madrasia was standing where we had left her, on
the hearth; she had the copper box in her hands and was examining it
carefully. On my entrance she put it down on the table, and we looked
at each other.
“Do you think he’ll come back?” she asked.
“I don’t know what he’ll do,” I answered, “but I think he and Pawley
are pretty much of a muchness! If he’s master and Pawley’s man, then
there’s not much to choose between man and master! Did you notice that
he wouldn’t allow that he knew Pawley, whereas he knew well enough that
he and Pawley met at Newcastle only day before yesterday? But I’ll tell
you what happened downstairs.”
I gave her a full account of the brief interchange of remarks between
Sir Charles and myself in the courtyard. She listened eagerly, and her
eyes lit up.
“Ah!” she said. “I see what he meant! He meant that on your telling
Jimmie of the doings at Newcastle, and that Sir Charles might be
expected, Jimmie cleared out quick!”
“Well, didn’t he clear out?” said I.
She looked at me a moment in silence; then she nodded her head, as much
as to assent to an undeniable proposition.
“I suppose he did!” she answered.
“Suppose? He did clear out!” I exclaimed. “Before morning! Why?”
“Didn’t want to meet this pompous old person,” she said. “That seems to
be about it. Yes, I think Jimmie decidedly cleared out!”
“Leaving us to face this sort of thing,” I said. “If one only knew what
it’s all about, what it means, why there’s this hue-and-cry after that
box----”
“I think the copper box is only a small part of it,” she interrupted.
“It’s--a sort of handle, a clue, a--something!”
“Decidedly a something,” I assented. “Doubtless you observed that
old White Whiskers very soon spotted it. That was all rot about the
sideboard! He wasn’t looking at the sideboard at all; his eyes were
glued on the copper box.”
“He’ll come back!” she exclaimed, suddenly. “I’m sure he’ll come back!
And I’m wondering if, when he comes back, he’ll bring the police.”
“The police! What on earth makes you think that?” I asked. “Police?
Come!”
“Didn’t you see Sir Charles Sperrigoe--whoever he may be--in
conversation with our local police inspector last night?” she
answered. “Obvious! The old person is in consultation with the police.
Perhaps--don’t you see?--the box has been stolen.”
“You don’t imply that Mr. Parslewe stole it?” I suggested.
“Well, I have heard that antiquaries are not above appropriating
things!” she answered with a laugh. “Their sense of mine and thine, I
believe, is somewhat indefinite. But we’ll acquit Jimmie. Only, he may
have bought it from somebody who stole it.”
“That’s more like it,” said I. “But in that case, why all this mystery?
Why didn’t Pawley--who without doubt came after the box--say what he
wanted? Why didn’t Sperrigoe?”
“Oh, Pawley came to see if the box was really here!” she declared.
“Sperrigoe came to ask how it got here! That’s plain, to me. But what I
want to know is, why such a fuss about it?”
“And what I want to know is, what made Parslewe vanish?” I said.
“That’s much more of a mystery.”
“Didn’t you tell me that he seemed to know whom you meant when you
described Sperrigoe as Sir Charles?” she asked. “Very well! Sir Charles
is somebody whom Jimmie knew years ago. And Jimmie doesn’t want to meet
him. Jimmie, as I have told you, is a queer man--an eccentric person.
And I don’t think he’ll come home until Sir Charles Sperrigoe has gone
away.”
“And I don’t think Sir Charles Sperrigoe will go away until he’s seen
Parslewe,” said I. “So there we are!”
“Oh, well! does it matter very much?” she asked. “Aren’t we going out
this fine morning? We’re doing no good here, staring at that wretched
thing and speculating about it. Let’s be off!”
But before we could make any move, Tibbie Muir came into the room,
looking very disapproving and sour of face, and presented Madrasia with
another card. She became voluble.
“I’ve told him, and I’ve better told him, that the master’s not at
home,” she declared, “but he’ll not take my word nor go away, and you
must just deal with him yourself, Miss Madrasia. And if there’s going
to be this coming and going at the door all day long----”
Madrasia glanced at the card and passed it over to me. It was a printed
card, and the lettering was meant to be impressive.
MR. AUGUSTUS WEECH.
_Newcastle Evening Planet._
“Well?” demanded Madrasia.
“I think I should see this gentleman,” said I.
“Bring him up, Tibbie,” commanded Madrasia. “Perhaps he’ll be the last.
What can he want?” she went on, turning to me as Tibbie grumblingly
departed. “A reporter?”
“Newspaper chap of some sort, evidently,” I said. “And wanting news!
But how does he come to know where to apply for news? And what news?”
“We’re only getting more and more fog-bound,” she remarked. “Wait till
we hear what he’s got to say; perhaps he has some news for us. He’s
here!”
A sharp-eyed, alert, knowing-looking young person entered the room and
made his bow. He was smartly dressed, evidently quite at his ease,
and full of vitality. And his first proceeding was remarkable. As he
straightened himself after doing obeisance to Madrasia his eyes fell
on the copper box, and without preface he pointed a long, slender
forefinger at it.
“That’s the identical article!” he exclaimed. “Sure!”
Then he looked round, saw me, grinned as if reassured by the sight of a
fellow man, and turned again to Madrasia.
“Mr. Parslewe’s not at home, I understand, Miss,” he said, affably.
“But you’re Miss Durham, ain’t you? I’ve heard of you. Now if I might
sit down----”
He had dropped into a chair at the side of the table before Madrasia
had had time to invite him thereto; laying his hat by his side he ran
his right hand through a rather abundant crop of fair hair--his action
seemed to signify a preliminary to business.
“I recognized that as soon as I walked in!” he said, with another frank
and almost child-like smile. “Queer business, ain’t it, about that old
box?”
“I gather that you know something about it,” observed Madrasia.
“I do, Miss, that’s why I’m here,” he answered candidly. “Yes, I know
something--so, too, I guess, does that young gentleman. I saw him
t’other day--yesterday, to be exact--coming out of Bickerdale’s shop.”
“You did?” I exclaimed.
“I did! You came out as I was crossing over to it,” he answered.
“You made old Bickerdale jolly waxy, too, some way or other. You see
Bickerdale, he’s my father-in-law.”
Madrasia and I looked at each other. I think we both had the same
thought--that our visitor looked very juvenile to be married.
“Oh!” I said. “Indeed?”
“Yes,” he continued. “Been that for the last three years--a man of a
queer and dour temper is Bickerdale. You set his back up yesterday,
Mr.--I don’t know your name?”
“My name is Craye,” I replied.
“Mr. Craye--all right. Well, Mr. Craye and Miss Durham--or _vice
versa_, if I’m to be polite--it’s like this,” he proceeded gaily.
“There’s a mystery about that copper box, isn’t there? I guess Mr.
Parslewe knows there is--but your old woman says he’s away--queer old
party, that old woman, isn’t she?--a character, I should think. But if
Mr. Parslewe’s away, you ain’t! And I want to get at something--and
to get at it, I don’t mind telling what I know. Between ourselves, of
course.”
Madrasia and I exchanged another glance; then we both sat down, one on
either side of our loquacious visitor.
“What do you know, Mr. Weech?” I asked, in my friendliest tone.
“Yes,” said Madrasia. “It would be so kind of you to tell us that!”
Mr. Weech smiled, drumming his fingers on the crown of his hat.
“Well!” he said, graciously, “I’ll tell you! Of course, I came to
tell Mr. Parslewe--but you’ll do. And no doubt you’ll be able to
tell me something. Well, me first, then. As I said, I’m Bickerdale’s
son-in-law. I married his third daughter, Melissa--she’s all right.
Naturally, being in the relation I am to Bickerdale, I’m a good deal
in and out of his place--go there Sundays, with the wife and kid.
Now, not so very long ago, I was there one Sunday, and happening to
go into his workshop for a smoke--my mother-in-law having a decided
objection to tobacco in the parlour--I set eyes on that article--that
very copper box! I was a bit taken with the engraved coat-of-arms and
the queer motto underneath, and I asked Bickerdale where he’d got
it. He told me that Mr. Parslewe of Kelpieshaw had brought it to him
to be repaired--it had got slightly damaged by a fall, and needed a
coppersmith’s attention. We talked a bit about it. Bickerdale said
it had been made--beaten copper, you know--at least a hundred years,
and was a very pretty bit of work. It had got a bulge in one side, and
Bickerdale had to straighten it out--very delicate and gentle business.
But he did it, and either Mr. Parslewe fetched it away, or it was sent
to him. Anyhow, there it is!--that’s the box!”
Mr. Weech gave the copper box a tap with his finger-nail as if to evoke
a confirmation of his words, and proceeded.
“Now, a bit--can’t say now how long exactly--after the box had come
back here, I was up at Bickerdale’s one Sunday, and after dinner
Bickerdale took me into his office. ‘I say!’ he says, when we were
alone. ‘You remember that copper box that I was repairing, that you
admired?--of course you do! Well, look here, there was some goods came
the other day in an old copy of _The Times_,’ he says, ‘and my eye just
happened to fall on this, on the front page,’ and he pulled out an
old _Times_ and pointed to an advertisement that he’d marked, in the
personal column. I read it, and I gaped at it! This,” continued Mr.
Weech, suddenly producing a folded newspaper from an inner pocket,
“this is not the identical copy of _The Times_ that Bickerdale had;
this is another copy of the same issue--I got it, as a back number, for
myself. Now, Miss Durham and Mr. Craye, you read that! and you’ll be
getting at a very good notion of what it is that I want to get out of
Mr. Parslewe! There, marked with red ink.”
He laid the newspaper on the table before us, and we bent over it,
reading with feelings which--so far as I was concerned--rapidly became
mixed.