you’ll give me that document--you, or Weech, or both of you! Do you
hear--hand it over!”
“No!” exclaimed Pawley. “I object. If there’s any handing over, Mr.
Parslewe, it’ll be to me. And as you’ve brought police here, I’d better
say at once that----”
Parslewe suddenly rose from his chair. He held up his left
hand--towards Pawley. There was something in the gesture that made
Pawley break off short in his words and remain silent. As for
Parslewe’s right hand, it went into his pocket and brought out his
cigar case. Silently he handed it to the inspector, motioning him to
help himself and to pass it to his man. Then he turned to Pawley again.
“Mr. Pawley!” he said in his most matter-of-fact tones. “It’s very
evident to me that you and I had better have a little conversation in
strict privacy. Bickerdale!--where have you a spare room?”
Bickerdale turned to Weech, growling something that sounded more like
a curse than an intimation. But Weech opened a door in the rear of the
room, and revealed a lighted kitchen place, and Parslewe, motioning
Pawley to follow him, went within. The door closed on them.
They were in that kitchen a good half-hour. As for those of us--five
men--who were left in the sitting-room, we kept to our respective
camps. Bickerdale and Weech, at their end of the place, hung together,
eyeing us furtively, and occasionally whispering. Weech in particular
looked venomous, and by that time I had come to the conclusion that
he had bluffed Madrasia and myself very cleverly on the occasion of
his visit to Kelpieshaw. As for the inspector and his man and myself,
we sat in a line, on three very stiff-seated, straight-backed chairs,
smoking Parslewe’s cigars, for lack of anything better to do, and
watched and waited. Only once during that period of suspense did any of
us speak; that was when the inspector, happening to catch my eye, gave
me a quiet whisper.
“Queer business, Mr. Craye!” he said. “Odd!”
“Very,” said I.
He smiled and looked round at his man. But the man was one of those
stolid-faced individuals who seem as if nothing could move them; also,
he appeared to be relishing Parslewe’s cigar. With this in one corner
of his lips he sat immovable, watching the door through which Parslewe
and Pawley had vanished. I think he never took his eyes off it; anyway,
my recollection of him is as of a man who could sit down and watch a
thing or a person for hours and hours and hours, without as much as
flickering an eyelid--an uncanny, uncomforting man--doubtless fitted,
by some freak of nature, to his trade of sleuth-hound.
As for me, I was wondering all round the affair. What was Parslewe
after? What was Pawley doing there? Who was Pawley, anyway? Why, at
that juncture, when his reinforcements had come up, did Parslewe want
to parley with Pawley? For a parley it was that was going on in that
kitchen, without a doubt. We heard nothing; there were no raised
voices, no evidence of any angry or wordy discussion. All we heard was
an occasional whisper from Weech, a muttered growl from Bickerdale in
response. But on the hearth a kettle was singing, and at a corner of
the rug, near Bickerdale’s slippered feet, a cat sat and purred and
purred....
The door of the kitchen suddenly opened; just as suddenly I saw that
whatever had been said, or whatever had taken place in that kitchen,
a marvellous transformation had developed in Pawley’s manner. He held
open the door for Parslewe, and stood aside deferentially as Parslewe
passed him. When he followed Parslewe into the parlour it was with the
air of a man who has either met his master or been made subject to some
revelation. And it was he who spoke first--in answer to a nod from
Parslewe. He turned to Bickerdale.
“Mr. Bickerdale!” he said in suave, placatory tones. “I think you’d
better do what Mr. Parslewe asks! I--I’ve had some conversation with
Mr. Parslewe, and--and I think that’s what you’d better do, Mr.
Bickerdale--just so!”
Bickerdale turned on him with a sudden glare which denoted nothing but
sheer surprise. I could see that the man was fairly astonished--amazed.
“Why--why!” he exclaimed. “It was you--you!--that told me just now to
do nothing of the sort!”
Pawley smiled in a queer, sickly, deprecating sort of fashion.
“Circumstances alter cases, Mr. Bickerdale,” he said. “I--I didn’t know
then what I know now. My advice is, now--do as Mr. Parslewe wants.”
Weech sprang to his feet--an epitome of anger and chagrin.
“But us!” he vociferated. “Us--me and him! What are we going to get
out of it? Where shall we profit?” He turned almost savagely on
Bickerdale. “Don’t!” he went on. “Don’t you do it! Never mind those
fellows over there! there’s no police business in this that I know of,
and----”
“I’ll give you in charge of the police in two minutes, my lad!” said
Parslewe suddenly. “Just to show you----”
“Mr. Bickerdale,” said Pawley. “Take my advice! I--I understand--from
Mr. Parslewe--you’ll not be a loser.”
Bickerdale gave him a searching look. Then, suddenly, he thrust a hand
into his inner breast pocket and drew out a small square envelope,
which, with equal quickness, he handed across the table to Parslewe.
In its passage, the light from the lamp gleamed upon this envelope; it
seemed to me that I saw a crest on the flap.
“Rid of it now, anyway!” growled Bickerdale, sullenly. “Done!”
We were all watching Parslewe. He drew back to a corner of the room,
where a second lamp stood on a wall bracket. Beneath this he turned the
envelope over, examining it back and front; I saw then that it had been
slit open by Bickerdale or Weech, or somebody through whose hands it
had passed. And out of it Parslewe drew what seemed to be an ordinary
sheet of notepaper. Whatever was written on it, he had read through in
a minute. There were six pairs of eyes watching him, but you might as
well have hoped to get news out of a stone wall as gain any information
from his face; it was more inscrutable and impassive than I had ever
seen it. He showed nothing--and suddenly he thrust paper and envelope
into his pocket, sat down at the table, pulled out a cheque-book and
a fountain-pen, and began to write. A moment later, he threw a cheque
across to Bickerdale; then, without a word to him, or to Weech, or to
Pawley, he strode out, motioning us to follow.
We made a little procession down town. Parslewe and the inspector
walked first; I heard them talking about county business--the levying
of a new rate, or some triviality of that sort. The plain-clothes man
and I brought up the rear; we talked about the weather, and he told
me that he had an allotment garden somewhere on the outskirts and
wanted rain for what he had just planted. Presently we all parted, and
Parslewe and I went to the hotel and up to the private sitting-room.
There was whisky and soda on the sideboard, and he mixed a couple of
glasses, handed me one, and drank his own off at a draught. Then, when
I had finished mine, he gave me a questioning look.
“Bed, my lad?” he suggested. “Just so! Come on, then--your room’s next
to mine; we’ll go together.” We walked along the corridor outside. “Do
you want an idea--not an original one--to go to bed with, Craye?” he
asked abruptly, as we reached our doors. “I’ll give you one. There are
some damned queer things in this world!”
Then, with one of his loud, sardonic peals of laughter, he shook my
hand and shot into his room.
X
_Known at the Crown_
The various doings of that evening had not been of a nature that
conduced to sleep, and I lay awake for a long time wondering about
them. Naturally, my speculations chiefly ran on what I had seen in
Bickerdale’s back parlour. How came Pawley there? What did Parslewe say
to Pawley in that kitchen that made Pawley suddenly transformed into
a state of almost servile acquiescence in Parslewe’s further doings?
What was the document that Bickerdale handed over to Parslewe? Had
Bickerdale found it during his repairing of the copper box, or had
Augustus Weech abstracted it when Madrasia and I left him alone in the
parlour at Kelpieshaw? All these questions ran helter-skelter through
my brain as I lay there, anything but sleepy, and, needless to say,
I hadn’t satisfactorily answered one of them when at last I dropped
off to a more or less uneasy slumber. The truth was that in spite of
various developments the whole thing, at two o’clock that morning, was
to me a bigger and more exasperating mystery than ever.
And it was still there when I woke, sharply, at six o’clock; so much
so, indeed, that I felt as if I should like to march into Parslewe’s
room next door, shake him out of his no doubt sound sleep, and
tell him that he’d got to make a clean breast of things, there and
then. As I knew no man in the world less likely to be forced into
confession until such time as he chose to speak, I took another course
to calm my perplexed state of mind. I rose, shaved, dressed, and
going downstairs, went out into the big station. Railway stations,
at any hour of the day, but especially early in the morning, have a
fascination for me--the goings and comings of the first trains, the
gradually increasing signs of waking up, the arrival of the newspapers
and opening of the bookstalls, even the unloading and carrying away of
the milk cans, are sources of mighty attraction. I lounged about for
some time, watching and observing; finally, as the hands of the clock
pointed to seven, and knowing that neither Parslewe nor Madrasia would
be ready for breakfast much before nine, I turned into the refreshment
room for a cup of coffee. And there at the counter, a suit-case at his
feet and a rug over his arm, stood Pawley.
Pawley gave me a smile which was half bland and half sickly, and wholly
mysterious. And suddenly feeling that I had as good a right as another
to indulge an entirely natural sense of inquisitiveness, I went up to
him and bade him good morning. He responded civilly enough, and it
struck me that he was rather glad to see me and not indisposed to talk.
He was eating bread and butter and sipping tea; I got some coffee and
biscuits, and for a moment or two we stood side by side, silent. But I
had an idea that Pawley wanted me to speak.
“Leaving?” I asked, with a glance at his belongings.
“That’s it, Mr. Craye,” he replied, almost eagerly. “By the
seven-forty, sir. I’m through with my job after last night.”
I noticed a difference in his tone and manner. He was no longer the
amateur antiquary, affecting a knowledge and a jargon carefully
acquired; he talked like what he probably was, an inquiry agent of
some sort. And in consonance with my previous feeling of intuition,
I thought that however much he might keep back, he was not against
communicating some of his knowledge.
“Last night’s proceedings,” I remarked, “were somewhat mysterious, Mr.
Pawley.”
“Mysterious!” he exclaimed. “I believe you! I’ve been concerned in some
queer things in my time, Mr. Craye, but in none queerer than this!
Beyond me! But no doubt you know more than I do.”
“I know nothing,” I answered. “Nothing, that is, beyond what I’ve
seen. And what I’ve seen I haven’t understood. For instance, I didn’t
understand how you came to be at Bickerdale’s last night.”
“Oh, that’s easy!” he said. “I was left here to keep an eye on
Bickerdale and to get in touch with him. And, incidentally, to find
out, if I could, whether Bickerdale had discovered anything in that
copper box when he had it.”
“Did anybody suspect that something might have been concealed in the
copper box?” I asked.
“To be sure, Mr. Craye! Sir Charles Sperrigoe suspected--does suspect.
That’s what he sent me up here for--to take a preliminary look round.
Then--came himself. Gone back now--but kept me here for a day or two.
To watch Bickerdale--as I said. And last night, just as I was hoping to
worm something out of Bickerdale and his son-in-law, that ratty little
chap--Weech--in walks Mr. Parslewe!”
“And did--what?” I asked.
He smiled, enigmatically.
“Mr. Parslewe, sir, is an odd gentleman!” he answered. “You’ll know
that by now, I think, Mr. Craye, though I understand you’re almost
a stranger to him. Well--Mr. Parslewe, he lost no time. He told
Bickerdale that he knew he’d found a document in a secret place in that
copper box--he’d the copper box with him, and he showed us the trick of
opening it.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” I interrupted, in surprise. “Found it out, eh?”
“He knew it, anyway,” replied Pawley. “It’s done by unscrewing the
feet--the little knobs--that the thing stands on. And he demanded of
Bickerdale that he should hand that document over there and then!
Sharp!”
“And--what then?” I inquired.
Pawley poured out more tea, and stirred it thoughtfully.
“That was where I came in,” he said. “I objected--as representing
Sir Charles Sperrigoe. I said he was the proper person to have any
document, and I was his representative. We were disputing that, and
Bickerdale was getting more obstinate about handing anything over to
anybody till he knew what he was getting out of it, when you and those
police chaps arrived. And the rest you know, Mr. Craye.”
“On the contrary,” said I, “I don’t! I don’t know anything. What
happened between you and Mr. Parslewe in that kitchen?”
But at that he shook his head, and I saw that there were things he
wouldn’t tell.
“As to that, Mr. Craye,” he answered, “Mr. Parslewe’s closed my lips!
But he’s a gentleman of his word, and after what he said to me, I’d
no choice, sir, no choice at all, but to fall in with his suggestion
that the document should be handed over to him. I couldn’t do anything
else--after what he told me. But as to what he told me--mum is the
word, Mr. Craye!--mum! At present.”
“Have you any idea what that document is?” I asked, going at last
straight to a principal point.
“None!” he replied quickly. “But--I’ve a very good idea!”
“What, then?” I put it to him. “I’d give a good deal to know.”
He glanced round, as if he feared to be overheard, though there was no
one near us.
“Well,” he said. “Have you heard of an old gentleman named Palkeney,
Mr. Matthew Palkeney, of Palkeney Manor, away there in the Midlands,
who died some little time ago, leaving money and a fine place and no
relatives, and from whose library that copper box and those books were
undoubtedly stolen?”
“I’ve heard of him--and of the rest,” I replied.
“Just so,” he said. “Well, Mr. Craye, between you and me, it’s my
belief that the document Mr. Parslewe got from Bickerdale last
night--or, rather, early this morning--was neither more nor less
than Mr. Matthew Palkeney’s will, which the old fellow--a queer old
stick!--had hidden in that copper box! That’s what I think!”
“Is it known that he made any will?” I asked.
“In the ordinary way, no,” he answered. “But things come out. This
would have come out before, but for the slowness of country folk to
tell anything. Sperrigoes, as the old gentleman’s solicitors, have
never been able to find any will, or trace of any. But recently--quite
recently--they’ve come across this--a couple of men on the estate,
one a woodman, the other a gamekeeper, have come forward to say that
some time ago they set their names to a paper which they saw their old
master sign his name to. What’s that but a will, Mr. Craye? Come!”
“It sounds like it,” I agreed. “And you think that it was that that Mr.
Parslewe recovered last night?”
“I do,” he answered. “For I’ve heard--Sir Charles told me himself--that
when the old man was struck down and lay dying, all he spoke of--as
far as they could make out--was the copper box, coupled with the family
name. Mr. Craye, I think he hid that will in the copper box, and that
Mr. Parslewe now has it in his pocket!”
It seemed a probable suggestion, and I nodded my assent.
“I suppose we shall hear,” I said.
Pawley picked up his suit-case.
“I must go to my train,” he said. “Hear? Yes--and see, too, Mr. Craye!
I think you’ll hear and see some queer things within this next day
or two, if you’re remaining in Mr. Parslewe’s company. But, I’ll
say this--Mr. Parslewe, though unmistakably a queer, a very queer,
eccentric gentleman, is a straight ’un, and whatever he got from
Bickerdale, it’s safe with him. Otherwise I shouldn’t be going south.
And, as I say, if you’re stopping with Mr. Parslewe, I think you’ll
have some entertainment. Better than a tale, I call it!”
He said good morning at that, and went off to his train, and after
buying a morning newspaper, I turned into the hotel and went up to the
private sitting-room. And then, presently, came Madrasia.
I was not going to say anything to Madrasia--I mean, as regarded the
events of the night. Fortunately, she asked no questions--about the
past, at any rate; her sole concern seemed to be about the immediate
future. There was a waiter in the room, laying the table for breakfast,
when she came in; she and I withdrew into the embrasure of the window,
looking out on streets that had now grown busy.
“Have you seen him this morning?” she asked significantly. “No? Did you
see him last night?”
“For a few minutes,” I answered.
“Did he say what we’re going to do to-day?” she inquired.
“Not a word!” said I. “Said nothing!”
“Not even whether we’re going home or not--or anything?” she demanded.
“No? But what are we here for?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Ask him!”
“Might as well ask the man on that monument!” she retorted, pointing
out of the window. “I feel like a marionette!--with Jimmie pulling the
strings just as he pleases.”
“Do you mind?” I asked.
“Well, it does seem as if one hadn’t a mind or a will of one’s own,”
she said. “Look here!--if he comes to breakfast with some new scheme,
or plan, or mad notion, what are you going to do--yourself?”
I gave her a purposely steady look.
“Fall in with it,” I answered.
“You are!” she exclaimed. “Why?”
“Nothing else to do,” I replied.
She regarded me steadily for a while.
“I hope he hasn’t hypnotised us,” she said. “Seems to me he’s only got
to lift a finger and we walk after him like lambs!”
“Rather amusing, though, after all,” I observed. “Adds variety to life.
He may have something quite exciting in store for us to-day.”
“Oh, well,” she said. “If you like to be led about like a performing
bear--however, here he is!”
Parslewe and breakfast came together. He had evidently been down to
the bookstall to buy a financial paper, and he sat, grim and fixed of
expression, as he ate and drank, and read figures and statistics. It
was not until he had made an end of his food that he betrayed any
particular consciousness of our presence. Then, laying down his paper,
he bent across the table to his ward, favouring her with one of his
charming smiles.
“Well, my dear,” he said, “did you buy all that you wanted yesterday
afternoon?”
“Yes,” replied Madrasia, promptly, “I did.”
“Enough to last you till you get home?” he continued.
“Quite!” said Madrasia.
“You didn’t happen to buy a bag, or a case, or something to carry your
impedimenta in?” he asked with a grin.
“Yes, I did,” retorted Madrasia. “Do you think I was going to carry a
brown paper parcel back to Wooler? I bought a very nice bag.”
“Oh!” he said sweetly. “All right! Then you can just go and pack it, my
girl, and be ready in three quarters of an hour, for we’re going.”
“Going where?” demanded Madrasia. “Home?”
“Not just yet,” he said. “We’re going south--by the express. A good
way, too, and we must get seats in the luncheon car. So you be ready.”
Madrasia pointed a slim finger at me.
“You’ve never asked him!” she exclaimed.
“That’s all right,” replied Parslewe, calmly. “He’s going too. We’re
all going. You go and pack your duds.” He turned to me as she went out
of the room and his smile was sweeter than ever. “You may as well see
it through, Craye,” he said. “I think we’ll have about settled things
up by noon to-morrow. And I’ll show you something that’ll appeal to
your artistic eye. Eh?”
“In for a penny, in for a pound, Mr. Parslewe,” I replied. “I’m
game!--but hanged if I know what it’s all about!”
“I’m not so certain that I know that myself, my lad!” he answered. “But
I think we’re getting near it. Well, be ready!”
He went off then, and I saw him no more until we all met to walk across
to the express. There was considerable satisfaction in travelling
with Parslewe, for he reduced the whole thing to the perfection
of comfort. He had already booked three places and a table in the
first-class dining-car, armed himself with a heap of magazines and
newspapers, and, as he said, we had nothing to do but drop on our
padded seats, put our toes under the table, and go away in luxurious
idleness. We went--but when that train moved out of Newcastle and
started on its long journey southward, neither Madrasia nor myself had
the faintest idea as to where we were going. I think it was much to
our credit--especially to hers--that we made no inquiry, and allowed
Parslewe to do just as he liked with us. Certainly I had some vague,
shadowy idea as to our destination; probably it was Palkeney Manor, or
to some place where somebody--Sperrigoe, perhaps--lived who had some
connection with it. But then--I did not know where Palkeney Manor was;
Pawley, to be sure, had referred to it as being in the Midlands, but
the Midlands are wide-stretching.
Anyway, we remained in that express until, after we had had lunch, it
ran into Peterborough. There Parslewe, without notice, bundled us out.
He treated us to one of his sardonic grins when he had shepherded us on
to the platform.
“This is where we begin to travel,” he remarked, drily. “That was a
preliminary--no bother about that--all straight running. But now----”
He broke off abruptly, and left us; presently we saw him in close
conversation with an official. Madrasia turned to me.
“Of course, you haven’t the least idea where we’re going,” she
suggested.
“If you mean, do I know exactly and precisely, no!” I answered. “If you
mean, do I know to within fifty or a hundred miles, yes!”
“Well?” she demanded.
“I think we’re going into one of the Midland counties,” I said,
resignedly. “There are several of them. I remember sufficient geography
to repeat their names if you want to hear them.”
“I don’t!” she answered. “But I wish we were there, wherever it is.
Where are we now? I mean, in relation to where we’re going?”
“A long way off,” I replied, consolingly. “That’s what he means when
he says we’re about to travel. The fact is, we’ve so far been on a
straight line; now, I suppose, we’ve got to cut across country. We’re
in the east, and we’ve got to go west.”
There was a clock over our heads, and Madrasia looked at it. We were
half-way through the afternoon.
“I suppose we shall land somewhere about midnight,” she said. “But it’s
just what I expected.”
She was wrong. We travelled a long way, to be sure, after leaving
Peterborough, and I knew, by passing such places as Rugby and Warwick,
that we were making into the heart of mid-England. But at eight
o’clock, and at a small station, Parslewe had us out of our carriage
and into a cab; within a few minutes we were in the quaint old streets
of what looked like a mediæval town. And even then we did not know its
name; all we knew was that he had ordered our driver to carry us to the
Crown. Presently we were there, and saw an old-world hostelry, out of
which came a very modern hall-porter, who, at sight of Parslewe, smiled
widely and touched his forehead.
“Glad to see you again, sir!” said this functionary. “Rooms, sir?”
Parslewe looked at the man with a quizzical, inquiring glance.
“So you remember me, do you?” he asked. “Eh?”
“Never forget a face, sir,” replied the hall-porter. “This way, sir!”
XI
_Back to Elizabeth_
We found ourselves in a wonderful old house, a place of nooks and
corners, old oak, old everything; it would not have surprised me if,
as I made my way along its queer passages and stairways, I had met men
in ruffs and women in farthingales. But it was modern enough in its
present administration, and they served us with a capital dinner, late
as it was in the evening. That and the charm of our surroundings put
Madrasia and myself into a better humour than we had been in during the
last tiresome stages of our long journey. I think that by that time we
were both inclined to enter into the spirit of the thing; it was, after
all, an adventure that had possibilities. And in the middle of dinner
Madrasia, with a whimsical laugh and a roguish sparkle in her eyes,
bent towards Parslewe, who, as usual, was unconcerned, phlegmatic, and
apparently quite at home.