Booksellers, Buyers of Rare Books, etc.: Missing, and Probably
Stolen, from a well-known Private Library, the following Scarce
Works. 1. Hubbard’s Present State of New England, 1677; 2. Brandt’s
Ship of Fooles, 1570; 3. Burton’s Anatomy, 1621; 4. Whole Works of
Samuel Daniel, Esquire, in Poetrie, 1623; 5. Drayton’s Polyolbion,
1622; 6. Higden’s Polycronicon, 1527; 7. Florio’s Montaigne, 1603.
Each of these copies, all extremely scarce, contains a book-plate
of which the following is a full description. [Here followed a
technical account, heraldic in detail.] Also Missing, and probably
stolen at the same time, an Antique Box, of Beaten Copper, on the
front of which is engraved the coat-of-arms and legend particularised
in the foregoing description. It is probable that these properties
will be offered to well-known collectors, here or abroad. The
book-plates may have been removed. The above mentioned reward of £250
will be paid to any person giving information which will lead to
their recovery. Such information should be given to the undersigned.
“SPERRIGOE, CHILLINGLEY, AND WATSON,
“_Solicitors_.
“3, FRIARS’ PAVEMENT,
MEDMINSTER.”
I took matters into my own hands on reading this. First nudging
Madrasia’s elbow to give her warning that I was about to do something
requiring delicacy and diplomacy, I turned to Mr. Weech.
“That’s very interesting,” said I. “And--curious! Er--perhaps
you’d like a little refreshment, Mr. Weech, after your journey? A
whisky-and-soda, now?”
“Well, thank you,” he answered, readily, with a glance at the
sideboard. “It wouldn’t come amiss, Mr. Craye; I hired a push-bicycle
at Wooler, but, my word! it wasn’t half a job shoving the old thing
over your roads--some part of the way, at any rate! Cruel!”
I gave him a good stiff mixture and put a box of biscuits at the side
of his glass. Then I got Madrasia’s attention once more, and, holding
_The Times_ in my hand, turned to the door.
“Just excuse Miss Durham and myself for a few minutes, Mr. Weech,” I
said. “We’ll not keep you long.”
Outside the parlour, and with its door safely shut on our visitor, I
looked at Madrasia, who, in her turn, looked inquiringly at me.
“Come up to the library!” I whispered. “Those books!”
“Yes!” she answered. “I thought of that!”
We stole up the stair, for all the world as if we were going to
commit some nefarious deed, and into the room wherein Parslewe kept
his various and many treasures. Within five minutes we had satisfied
ourselves, and stood looking questioningly at each other. We had
reason; the books specified in the advertisement were all there! Every
one of them!--book-plates and all.
“What next?” muttered Madrasia at last. “Of course, we mustn’t tell
him!”
She nodded at the floor, indicating the spot beneath which Mr. Weech
was sipping his drink and nibbling biscuits.
“Tell him nothing!” said I. “But, let him tell us! Come down!”
We went down again; Mr. Weech looked very comfortable.
“We should like to hear more of your very interesting story, Mr.
Weech,” I said. “You got to the point where Bickerdale showed you this
advertisement. What happened after that?”
“Why, this,” he answered, evidently more ready to talk than ever.
“Bickerdale and I consulted. He was all for writing to these lawyers at
once, denouncing Mr. Parslewe as the thief. I said, metaphorically, you
know--that he was an ass; it was much more likely that Mr. Parslewe
had been taken in by the real and actual thief. I advised seeing Mr.
Parslewe. But Bickerdale, he wrote, unbeknown to me, to these lawyers,
saying that he was sure he’d had this copper box in his hands, and that
where it was, probably the books would be. And those lawyers sent a
man--a private detective--down to investigate----”
“Name of Pawley, eh?” I suggested.
“Never heard it, but I shouldn’t wonder if it was,” he answered. “I
only heard of him. Anyway, he came--and his principal followed him--a
big, pompous man, who was at Bickerdale’s yesterday. And that’s where
Bickerdale and I quarrelled, see?”
“Not quite,” I replied. “How, and why, did you quarrel?”
“Because Bickerdale, for some queer reason or other, suddenly shut his
mouth after that fat old party had been, and wouldn’t give me one scrap
of information,” answered Mr. Weech, with a highly injured air. “Dead
silence on his part, eh? Flat refusal! That was after I saw you leaving
him. Ab-so-lute-ly refused to tell me one word about what was going on!
Me! his son-in-law, and more than, for that’s where the shoe pinches,
a pressman!”
“Ah!” I exclaimed, seeing light at last. “I see! You want to make what
they call a story of it?”
“What else?” he answered, with a knowing wink. “What d’ye suppose I’m
here for? I don’t believe Mr. Parslewe--I’ve heard of him, many a
time--stole that blessed box--not I! But there’s romance, and mystery,
and what not about the whole thing, and I want to work it up and make
a live column, or a couple of ’em, out of it, and so I came to the
fountainhead, and Mr. Parslewe’s away, worse luck. Now, _can_ you tell
me anything?”
We got rid of Mr. Weech by promising him faithfully that on Mr.
Parslewe’s return we would tell him all that had transpired, and would
entreat him to favour our visitor with his exclusive confidence, and
after another whisky-and-soda, during his consumption of which he told
us confidentially that he meant to Ride High, he went away, leaving us
more mystified than ever.
And we were still more mystified when, during the course of that
afternoon, a telegraph boy came all the way over the moors from
Wooler, bringing me a message. It was, of course, from Parslewe, and,
as Madrasia at once remarked, just like him.
_Both of you meet me Newcastle Central Station noon to-morrow._
VII
_What the Dying Man Said_
We discussed that telegram during the greater part of the next few
hours, arguing out its meanings and significances; we became no wiser
in the process, but it seemed hopeless to endeavour to settle down
to anything else. Madrasia, I think, got some relief in making the
necessary arrangements for our departure in the morning; I think, too,
that she was further relieved at the prospect of meeting her eccentric
guardian and getting--or attempting to get--some explanation of these
curious proceedings. For that they were curious, to the last degree,
was beyond question. My own rapid review of them, taking in everything
from the first coming of Pawley to the visit of Mr. Augustus Weech,
only served to convince me that we were becoming hopelessly entangled
in a series of problems and theories about which it was as useless as
it was impossible to speculate.
But there was more to come before the afternoon closed. First of all
came another wire from Parslewe. It was short and peremptory, like the
first, but it was more illuminating, and, in some queer way, it cheered
us up.
_Bring the box with you._
Madrasia clapped her hands.
“That’s better!” she exclaimed. “That’s lots better! It means that he’s
clearing things up, or he’s going to. For heaven’s sake, don’t let’s
forget the copper box! Which of us is most to be depended upon for
remembering?”
“I, of course,” said I, “being a man.”
“We’ll debate that on some other occasion,” she retorted. “As a
woman--Lord! what’s that?”
Old Tibbie was just entering with the tea-tray; as she opened the door,
a loud, insistent knocking came on the iron-studded panels at the foot
of the stair. Tibbie groaned and almost dropped her tray, and Madrasia
turned appealingly to me.
“We’re all getting nervous,” she said. “Will you run down?”
I went down the stair, opened the great door, and found myself
confronting a fresh-coloured, pleasant-faced man who had just
dismounted from a serviceable but handsome cob and stood in the
courtyard with its bridle over his arm. He smiled at sight of me.
“Mr. Craye, I’m sure?” he said. “I’ve heard of you. Staying here with
Mr. Parslewe. Now, is Mr. Parslewe in? I mean, has he returned?”
“No!” I answered, bluntly enough.
He looked at me with a glance that was at once understanding and
confidential; there was, I thought, something very like the suspicion
of a wink in his eye.
“The fact of the case is, I’m his solicitor,” he remarked. “And----”
But just then Madrasia came flying down the stairs, and greeted the
visitor so warmly that for the fraction of a second I really felt
jealous.
“Mr. Murthwaite!” she cried, catching his readily extended hand and
shaking it almost fervently. “Oh!--this is awfully good of you. We’re
in an absolute muddle here--mentally, I mean--and now you’ll clear
everything up for us! The sight of you is as good as sunshine after
storm. Come in!--old Edie shall take your horse. This gentleman is Mr.
Alvery Craye, a famous artist, and he’s nearly as much out of his wits
as I am!”
“Then I find myself in queer and possibly dangerous company!” remarked
Mr. Murthwaite, with another half wink at me. “However, I hope you’re
sane enough to give me some tea, Miss Durham? Good!--then I’ll come
in.” He handed his horse over to old Muir and followed Madrasia up
the stair, I coming behind. His tone had been light and bantering up
to then, but as soon as the three of us had reached the parlour and I
had closed the door he turned to both with a quick, searching, earnest
glance, and, unconsciously, I think, lowered his voice. “Now look
here,” he said, in the tone of a man who wants a direct answer. “Do
you young people, either of you, know where Parslewe is? What I really
mean, though, is--is he in this house?”
“In this house!” exclaimed Madrasia. “Good heavens! Do you
mean--hidden?”
“Why not?” answered Murthwaite. “I dare say one who knows it could hide
in this old place for a month. But is he? Or anywhere about?”
Madrasia looked at me; I looked at the two telegrams which were lying
on the table beyond the tea-tray.
“As Mr. Murthwaite is Mr. Parslewe’s solicitor,” said I, “I should show
him those wires. They are the best answer to his question.”
“Yes!” agreed Madrasia. She snatched up the telegrams, and put them in
Murthwaite’s hand; we both watched him intently while he read. “There!”
she said, as he folded them again. “What do you think?”
“I think that Parslewe is a very strange man!” replied Murthwaite. “I
think, too, that I must have a talk to you--both--about him. Now, as
the tea is there, and you are so hospitable----”
We gathered round the table, and Madrasia began to busy herself with
the teapot and the cups. It was useless to attempt the talking of
nothings; we were all full of the occasion of Murthwaite’s visit, and
he was acute enough not to keep Madrasia and myself waiting for his
news.
“I’ll tell you, briefly, what brought me here,” he said, after his
first cup. “To-day, about noon, I had a visit from a Sir Charles
Sperrigoe, who, after introducing himself as a fellow solicitor from
a distant part of the country, told me that he had just ascertained
in the town that I was solicitor to Mr. James Parslewe of Kelpieshaw;
that he had been out to Kelpieshaw to find Mr. Parslewe, had failed
to find him, and so had come to me. He then told me a very wonderful
tale, which I am quite at liberty to tell you, and will tell to you
presently. But first, I want to hear from Mr. Craye a story which I
think he can tell about Newcastle. Sir Charles is under the impression
that Mr. Craye told something to Mr. Parslewe last night which sent him
off on his travels. I should like to hear that story, and then I’ll
tell you what Sir Charles Sperrigoe told me, under persuasion.”
“I’d better tell you the plain facts about the whole affair, from the
coming here of a man named Pawley until your own arrival just now,”
said I. “You’ll then have the entire history of the matter before you,
as far as I know it. It’s this----”
He listened carefully, sipping his tea and munching his toast, while I
told him everything. Now and then Madrasia corrected or prompted me a
little; between us we gave him all the salient facts and details, down
to the visit of Weech and the receipt of the last telegram; Madrasia
had the last word.
“And then you came, Mr. Murthwaite! And if you can tell us what it all
means, we’ll bless you!” she said. “Can you?”
But Murthwaite shook his head, decidedly.
“I can’t!” he answered. “Even now it’s as much a mystery to me as ever,
though I think I see a little gleam of light--a very, very little one.
No, I can only tell you what Sperrigoe told me this morning. If I may
have another cup of your very excellent tea, and a cigarette with
it----”
He waited during a moment’s silent reflection, then, leaning back in
his chair, and using his cigarette occasionally to point his remarks,
he began to address us pretty much as if we constituted a jury.
“The firm of which Sir Charles Sperrigoe is senior partner,” he said,
“has for many years acted as legal advisers to a very ancient family
in the Midlands, the Palkeneys of Palkeney Manor, whose coat-of-arms
you see on the now famous copper box on that sideboard, complete with
its curious legend, or motto. The Palkeneys have been there at Palkeney
ever since Tudor times--in fact, since the earliest Tudor times. A
wealthy race, I understand, but one of those which have gradually
dwindled. And to come down to quite recent times, a few years ago, an
old gentleman who was believed to be the very last of the Palkeneys,
Mr. Matthew Palkeney, was living at Palkeney Manor. He was a very old
man, nearly ninety. Once, in his early days, he had had a younger
brother, John Palkeney, but he, as a young man, had taken his portion,
a younger son’s portion, gone away from the ancestral home, and never
been heard of again--the last that was heard of him was from South
America, sixty or seventy years ago, when he was starting into hitherto
unexplored country, where, it was believed, he lost his life. And so,
in his old age, Matthew Palkeney, as last of his race, was very lonely.
And one day he was stricken down in his last illness, and for some
hours Sperrigoe, the doctor, the housekeeper, the nurse, all gathered
about his death-bed, were considerably disturbed and puzzled by the old
man’s repetition of certain words. They were the only words he murmured
after being struck down, and he said them over and over again before
he died. I will tell you what they were. These--_The copper box--a
Palkeney--a Palkeney--the copper box!_”
He paused, with due appreciation of the dramatic effect, and looked at
us. Madrasia gave a little shudder.
“Creepy!” she murmured.
“Very!” agreed Murthwaite. “Well, nobody knew what the old man meant,
and it was useless to try to get him to give any explanation. But when
he was dead, the old housekeeper, after much cudgelling of her brains,
remembered that in a certain cabinet in a certain corner of the library
there was a small box of beaten copper which she had seen Matthew
Palkeney polish with his own hands in past years. She and Sperrigoe
went to look for it; it was gone! Sperrigoe had the house searched
from top to bottom for it; it was not in the house! That copper box
had been stolen--and there it is, on Parslewe’s sideboard, here in
Northumberland. That is--fact. Fact!”
He paused again, and we kept silence until it pleased him to go on.
“How did it get here?--or, rather, since nobody but Parslewe knows
that, we can only deal with this--how did Sperrigoe find out that it
was here? Mr. Craye has just told me one side of that, I can tell
another. When Sperrigoe found that the copper box had been undoubtedly
stolen, he had a thorough examination made of the contents of the
library and checked by a printed catalogue kept there--for the library
is famous. Then he found that several rare and valuable old books had
disappeared with the copper box. Then he advertised. You know the
rest. Parslewe had taken the copper box to Bickerdale; Bickerdale
saw Sperrigoe’s advertisement--and so on. And now, when Pawley, as
Sperrigoe’s advance agent, and then Sperrigoe himself, turn up to ask
a direct question as to how he became possessed of the copper box, why
does he run off?”
“Happening to know him,” said Madrasia quickly, “I can answer that.
For good and honest reasons of his own!”
“As his friend and solicitor,” remarked Murthwaite, “I say Amen to
that! But--why not have given some explanation?”
But it was time for me to step in there.
“Mr. Murthwaite!” I said. “Neither Pawley nor Sir Charles Sperrigoe
asked for any explanation! Sperrigoe, of course, never saw Mr.
Parslewe; Pawley came here as a mere spy----”
“Yes, yes!” he interrupted. “But what I really mean is, why didn’t he
give some explanation to you?”
“To me!” I exclaimed. “Why to me?”
“Because you were the only person who knew the--shall we say immediate
facts of the case?” he replied. “Evidently, although you have only
known each other a few days, he trusts you, Mr. Craye. Why didn’t
he give you a brief explanation of this seeming mystery instead of
stealing away in the night? Why?”
“As I said!” exclaimed Madrasia. “For good reasons--of his own.”
Murthwaite drummed his fingers on the table, regarding us intently.
“Don’t you see?” he said suddenly. “Don’t you realise the suspicion he
has brought on himself? Sir Charles Sperrigoe doesn’t know him.”
“I’m not so sure of that!” said I, with equal suddenness. “Anyway, I’m
quite sure he knows Sperrigoe--or knew him once. Sure of it from a
remark he made when I was telling him about Sperrigoe.”
“Eh!” exclaimed Murthwaite. “What remark?”
I told him. He rose suddenly from his chair, as if an idea had struck
him, and for a minute or two paced the room, evidently thinking. Then
he came back to the table, resumed his seat, and turned from one to the
other, pointing to the two telegrams which still lay where he had put
them down.
“Let us get to business,” he said. “Now I suppose you two young people
are going to meet Parslewe at Newcastle to-morrow morning in response
to those wires?”
“Certainly,” answered Madrasia. “And we shall take the copper box with
us.”
“Very well,” he continued. “Then I want you to do three things. First,
tell Parslewe all that I have told you as regards the Palkeney affair.
Second, tell him that on my own responsibility, and as his friend and
solicitor, I have given Sir Charles Sperrigoe an assurance--a pledge,
in fact--that he will, as quickly as possible, give Sir Charles a
full account of how box and books came into his possession, so that
their progress from Palkeney Manor to Kelpieshaw may be traced--it’s
inconceivable, of course, that Mr. Parslewe came by them in any
other than an honest way. Third, I have persuaded Sir Charles to go
home--where he awaits Mr. Parslewe’s communication.”
“Oh!” said Madrasia. “But has he gone?”
“He went south after seeing me--by the next train,” replied Murthwaite.
“Leaving the police inspector at Wooler under the impression that my
guardian is a possible thief, eh?” suggested Madrasia.
“Nothing of the sort!” retorted Murthwaite. “Come, come, my dear young
lady!--things aren’t done in that way. All that Sperrigoe did in that
quarter was to make certain guarded inquiries as to Parslewe’s status
in the neighbourhood. The police know nothing, of course.”
There was a brief silence, broken at last by Madrasia.
“Of course, we will give my guardian your message,” she said. “Every
word! But, Mr. Murthwaite, haven’t you any idea of what all this is
about? All this fuss, mystery, running up and down country about a
copper box--that box?”
Murthwaite laughed, and turning to the sideboard took the copper box
from it.
“I’ve no more idea of the solution of the mystery than you have,” he
answered. “This article is certainly a curiosity in itself. Fine old
beaten copper, beautifully made, and beautifully engraved. But why all
this fuss about it--as you say--I can’t think. Still, when a dying
man mutters what old Matthew Palkeney did, over and over again, eh?
Naturally his man-of-law wants to get at some sort of clearing up. My
own notion is that it’s not the copper box, but what may have been in
the copper box! Not the case, but the contents--don’t you see?”
“You think something was kept in it at Palkeney Manor?” I suggested.
“Probably,” he assented. “That’s just about what I do think.”
“And that the original thief has stolen whatever it was?”
“Just so! The box may have passed through several hands before it came
into Parslewe’s. Parslewe no doubt picked up this thing in some curio
shop--the books, too.”
“Have the people of Palkeney Manor any idea as to how the theft
occurred?” I asked.
“None!--according to Sperrigoe. But I understand that Palkeney Manor
is a sort of show-place. That is, there are certain rooms which are
shown to the public, including the library. A shilling fee is charged
on certain mornings of the week--the proceeds are given to the local
charities. And, of course, Sperrigoe thinks that this box and the books
were stolen by some visitor only just before old Mr. Matthew Palkeney’s
death. So--there we are! All that’s wanted now is--a few words from
Parslewe.”
He then said he must go, and presently we went down the stair and out
into the courtyard with him. Old Edie brought out the cob; with his
hand on its bridle Murthwaite turned to Madrasia.
“Now just get Parslewe to come straight back and tell me all about it
so that I can write to Sperrigoe and clear up the mystery,” he said.
“Tell him all I have said, and that he must come at once.”
But Madrasia was beginning to show signs of a certain mutinous spirit.
“We’ll tell him every word you’ve said, and all about Sperrigoe coming
here, and Weech coming, too,” she answered. “But, you know, Mr.
Murthwaite, you’re completely ignoring something, lawyer though you
are!”
“What?” he asked, with an amused laugh.
“That my guardian would never have gone away, never have wired for Mr.
Craye and myself, never asked that the copper box should be brought to
him, unless he had very good and strong reasons,” she answered. “Do
you think he’s playing at something? Rot! The whole thing’s much more
serious than you think!”
Murthwaite looked from her to me.
“That your opinion, too, Mr. Craye?” he asked.
“It is!” said I. “My absolute opinion.”
He shook hands with us, and got into his saddle. He bent down for a
last word.
“Never been so curious about a matter in my life!” he said. “But it
must end!”
Then he rode off across the moor and disappeared. And next morning
Madrasia and I journeyed to Newcastle, she carrying the copper box,
neatly tied up and sealed. Our train ran in at the very time at which
we were to meet Parslewe. But we saw no Parslewe. We stood staring
around us until a man in the livery of a hall-porter came along, eyeing
us closely, and stopped at my side.
“Beg pardon, sir--Mr. Craye, sir? Just so, sir--Mr. Parslewe’s
compliments, and will you and the young lady join him at lunch in the
hotel? This way, sir.”
VIII
_One Minute Past Midnight_
We followed Parslewe’s messenger across the platform to the hotel in
a state of mute obedience, being, as Madrasia remarked afterwards,
resigned by that time to anything that Parslewe did or commanded. But I
think hunger had something to do with our meekness; we had breakfasted
early, and had had nothing since, and as far as I was concerned the
thought of this hotel and its excellent fare--already known to me--was
by no means unwelcome. I turned instinctively towards the coffee-room
as we entered, already anticipating its pleasures more than my meeting
with Parslewe. But our guide steered us away from it; he took us
upstairs, along corridors, down passages, finally opened a door. And
there was a private sitting-room, and a table laid for lunch, and on
the hearth, warming his coat-tails at a blazing fire, his saturnine
countenance wearing a more cynical grin than ever, Parslewe.
He greeted us as coolly and unconcernedly as if we were in his own
parlour at Kelpieshaw and had just come down to breakfast; indeed,
he scarcely did more than give us a careless good morning, his chief
concern just then seemed to be to catch the porter’s attention before
he closed the door on us.
“Hi, you!” he called. “Just tell that waiter to bring up lunch,
will you?--there’s a good fellow! Well,” he went on, regarding us
speculatively as the man went off. “I suppose you’re hungry, eh?”
“Very!” said I.
“Famishing!” declared Madrasia.
He inspected her critically, rubbed his chin, and pointed to a side
table.
“Take your things off and throw ’em on there, my dear,” he said. “You
can take ’em to your own room afterwards.”
Madrasia, in the act of divesting herself, turned on him.
“Room?” she exclaimed.
“Number 186, yours,” he answered, calmly. “Yours, Craye, is 95--next
mine. Don’t forget the numbers--however, if you do, they’ll tell you
at the office. They’re booked in your respective names.”
“Do you mean that we’ve got to stay the night here?” demanded Madrasia.
“Precisely,” replied Parslewe, in his most laconic manner. “Two, maybe.”