mystery, Jimmie,” she said, “may one ask a question?”
“Aye, why not?” he answered. “As long as it’s sensible.”
“Sensible enough,” she retorted. “Where are we?”
“Just so!” said I. “The same question has suggested itself to me,
limited as my intelligence is. For I don’t know!”
Parslewe regarded us with calm eyes and manner.
“We’re in the ancient and eminently picturesque and very comfortable
Crown Hotel at Medminster,” he answered. “Which stands in the Market
Place, and commands a remarkable view of one of the last bits of
mediæval England, as you can read in the guide books, and, better
still, see for yourselves in the morning.”
“Medminster,” exclaimed Madrasia. “But that’s where old Sperrigoe comes
from! At least, that was the address given in _The Times_ advertisement
that Weech showed us.”
“Precisely!” agreed Parslewe, drily. “It was here in this very room, at
that table, that I had the honour of meeting Sperrigoe.”
“When?” demanded Madrasia.
“Oh! Some time ago,” he answered, indifferently.
“Then, if you’d been at home when he called at Kelpieshaw the other
morning, he’d have known you?” said Madrasia, giving me a kick under
the table. “Of course he would, as you’d met before.”
“He might have known my face,” answered Parslewe. “But he wouldn’t have
known my name; at least, I mean, he never knew my name when I met him
here. We chanced to meet here, as strangers, happening to dine together
at the same table; we smoked a cigar together afterwards, and chatted
about the old town. I heard his name, but he never heard mine; to him
I was a mere bird-of-passage. I guess,” he went on, with one of his
cynical laughs, “old Sperrigoe would have been vastly astonished if
he’d found me in at Kelpieshaw and had recognised in me the stranger of
the Crown!”
“Have you come here to see old Sperrigoe?” demanded Madrasia.
Parslewe was the best hand I ever came across at the fine art of
disregarding a direct question. His face became utterly blank and his
lips set, and remained so until a new whim came over him, and he began
to tell us something of the history of the old house to which he had
brought us. Of that he would talk, but we both saw that it was no use
questioning him on any other subject, and we left him alone. But I had
already learned something--Parslewe had been there before; he had met
White Whiskers there; White Whiskers would know him: without a doubt he
had come there to meet White Whiskers. But why on earth did he elude
White Whiskers at Kelpieshaw?
Before the evening closed I learned something else. Madrasia retired
early; Parslewe began writing a letter in the smoking-room; left
to myself, I strolled out to the front door of the hotel to take a
look at my surroundings. The old Market Place was flooded in bright
moonlight, and I saw at once that Parslewe had been right when he spoke
of it as a bit of mediæval England. On all sides of me were ancient
half-timbered houses with high gables and quaintly ornamented fronts;
above them, at one end of the square, rose the tall square tower of a
church; fronting it, at the other end, was what I took to be an old
Moot Hall. But for the gas-lamps which twinkled here and there, and
for the signs and names above the shops, I should have thought myself
thrown back to Tudor times.
The hall-porter came out as I stood there, looked up at the sky, and
remarked that we should have a fine day to-morrow, and that good
weather was desirable, for people were beginning to go about.
“You get tourists here, I suppose?” said I.
“No end of ’em, sir,” he answered. “Deal of Americans come here--they
like that sort of thing”--waving his hand towards the old houses
opposite. “Nothing of that sort in their country, I understand, sir.
Oh, yes, full of tourists all the summer months, sir.”
“But you don’t remember all their faces, do you?” I suggested.
He laughed at my reference to his remark on our arrival.
“Why, no, sir, not chance comers like that,” he admitted. “Though
I wouldn’t be too sure on that point--one gets into a habit of
noticing, you know, sir. But in the case of anybody who stops here a
day or two--never forget, sir. I knew your friend at once--noticeable
gentleman, of course.”
“Easily recognised,” I suggested.
“Just so, sir. Though it’ll be--let me see--yes, three years or
so since he was here,” he answered. “Oh, I remember him well
enough. Stopped here two or three nights, one autumn. A collector
of curiosities, I think, sir. I remember I bought him a couple of
packing-cases to carry away odds and ends that he’d bought in the town.
Considerable trade done in that way here, sir--half those shops you see
on the other side are curio shops.”
“How do they keep up their stock?” I asked.
“Ah! that’s a question that a lot of people have put to me, sir,” he
replied. “You’d almost think they manufacture things! But the fact is,
sir, this is an old part of England, with a lot of old houses about,
old country seats, and the like. And families die out, and the stuff
they’ve been accumulating for generations comes to auction, and a lot
of it gets into these curio shops--that’s how it’s done, sir. Plenty of
antiques in those shops, sir, but nothing to what there is in the old
houses in the neighbourhood.”
“Do you know a house near here called Palkeney Manor?” I asked,
thinking that as this was an intelligent and communicative man I might
as well improve my own knowledge. “There is such a place, I think?”
“Palkeney Manor, sir!” he answered readily. “To be sure, sir! Three
miles out--fine old house that is--sort of show-place; you can look
round it by paying a shilling--all our American customers go there,
and the shillings go to the local charities. Oh, yes! that was old Mr.
Matthew Palkeney’s. Dead now, he is, and they do say that the lawyers
don’t know who the property belongs to--haven’t found out yet, anyway.
Fine property it is, too. Queer old gentleman, old Mr. Palkeney!--and
that reminds me that I think your friend knew him, sir. Leastways, the
last day your friend was here I remember that old Mr. Palkeney drove up
in his carriage and gave me a parcel for him--I helped him to pack that
parcel in one of the cases I’d bought for him.”
“You’ve an excellent memory,” I remarked.
“Oh, well, one thinks of things, sir,” he answered. “Faces, now,
sir, they stir your memory up, don’t you think? And I’ve seen some
remarkable faces in my time--faces that you’d remember twenty years
after. Some faces, of course, is that ordinary that you never notice
’em. But others----”
At that moment Parslewe put his face through the swing door behind us,
and seeing the hall-porter on the steps came out. He had a letter in
his hand. Coming to the hall-porter he waved the letter towards the
west end of the Market Place.
“Isn’t Sir Charles Sperrigoe’s office just round that corner?” he
asked. “Aye? Well, just go and put this note into his letter-box, will
you? Then he’ll get it first thing in the morning. Go now, there’s a
good fellow!” He turned to me when the man had gone on his errand.
“Well, master!” he asked, in his half-cynical, half-humorous fashion.
“How does this appeal to your artistic sense?”
“A fine setting for a mystery, Mr. Parslewe,” I answered.
“I dare say you’re right,” he said with a laugh. “But I think we shall
have done with mysteries to-morrow, my lad. And what mystery there is
has been none of my making! Well, I’m off to my bed. Good night.”
With that, and a pleasant nod, he went unconcernedly off, and presently
I followed his example, more mystified than ever by his last remark.
For if he had not made all this mystery, who had?
Whether the mystery was going to be done with next day or not, its
atmosphere was still thick upon us next morning. At ten o’clock,
Parslewe, who invariably made all his arrangements without consulting
anybody who was affected by them, marshalled us into a carriage and
pair at the door of the Crown and gave some instructions, aside, to the
coachman. We drove off into a singularly picturesque and well-wooded
country. Madrasia, fresh from the almost treeless slopes of the
Cheviots, was immediately in raptures with it. Already the trees were
in leaf, the wide-spreading meadows were covered with fresh green,
and in the vistas of woodland through which we passed daffodils and
wood anemones made splashes of colour against the bursting verdure.
New to her, too, were the quaint thatched cottages, many of them
half-timbered, and all ancient, by the roadside.
“It’s like the old England that one sees in pictures!” she exclaimed.
“It’s as if we’d gone back!”
“We have gone back,” said Parslewe, with one of his queer, grim
looks. “Back to Elizabeth! There’s not much that’s altered hereabouts
since Shakespeare’s time--neither houses nor men. And if you’re
going to develop a taste for mediævalism, my dear, you’ll soon be
satisfied--we’re presently going to set foot in a house that’s as old
as they make ’em.”
But before this came about the carriage stopped at a wayside cottage,
and Parslewe, without a word to us, got out, knocked at the door,
and went in. He remained inside for several minutes; when he emerged
again it was in the company of a tall, weather-beaten old man whom,
because of his velveteen coat and general appearance, I took to be
a gamekeeper. Motioning to the coachman to follow him up the road,
Parslewe walked on ahead with his companion, and presently turned into
a wayside wood. Coming abreast of the bridle-gate by which they had
entered, we saw them in conversation with a third man, also elderly,
who was felling trees; for some minutes the three stood talking
together.
“What is he after now?” asked Madrasia.
I shook my head--nothing was going to draw me into speculations about
Parslewe’s proceedings.
“The best thing at the present juncture,” said I, as oracularly as
possible, “is just to let things occur. I don’t know what he’s after!
Let him pursue it! We shall find things out as we go on.”
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I imagine--but I may be wrong--that we’re on our way to that Palkeney
Manor of which Murthwaite told us,” said I. “I think we’ve been on
our way to it ever since we left Newcastle yesterday morning. That’s
probably the house that’s as old as they make ’em. You’d better be
prepared--for anything. I am!”
“What do you mean?” she demanded. “You’re getting cryptic too!”
“I think my brains are addled!” I answered. “Never mind! I know
something!”
“What?” she asked.
I bent forward to her, endeavouring to look as mysterious as I possibly
could, and spoke in a hushed voice.
“This!” I said, thrillingly. “Parslewe has the copper box in his
pocket!”
She drew back, staring at me as if she wondered whether my mind had
given way. I nodded solemnly.
“Fact!” said I. “I saw him put it there! It’s in the right-hand
outer pocket of his coat. And in the copper box lies the explanation
of--everything! Hush!--not a word! He’s coming back.”
Parslewe came back, leaving the two old men talking together, and
I noticed that they stared after his retreating figure with vast
interest. But instead of getting into the carriage again, he motioned
to us, in his usual imperious fashion, to get out. Then he turned to
the coachman.
“Isn’t there an inn along the road there, near the village?” he asked.
“Just so; then you go and put up your horses at it, and wait there till
I send for you. We’ll do the rest on foot,” he went on, turning to us.
“There’s a path through the woods a little farther on.”
He led us up the road for another hundred yards, then turned into a
bridle-track that wound through a mass of venerable old trees for
a good half-mile. We made slow progress, for Madrasia insisted on
gathering a bunch of primroses. She was putting the last finishing
touches to this when Parslewe, who had got a little ahead, called to us.
“Now then, here you are!” he said. “Here’s the place!”
We went on, and found him at the edge of the wood, leaning over a
gate. He pointed before him with his stick.
“Palkeney Manor,” he remarked, drily.
Madrasia let out a sudden, whole-souled exclamation of delighted
wonder. I was not surprised; the scene before us was one of that
peculiar charm and quiet beauty which no other country than our own can
show. We were looking on an undulating park, vividly green, studded
with old trees beneath which antlered deer were browsing; there was
a tree-shaded stretch of water in one of the miniature valleys, and
cattle standing knee-deep in it, and above this, on a rising ground,
backed by tall elms and giant chestnuts, stood a beautiful old house,
mellowed by centuries of age.
We were all intent for a time, staring. Then Madrasia spoke, softly.
“What a picture of a place!” she said. “Jimmie! even you must think it
is!”
But Parslewe gave us one of his queer looks.
“Um!” he answered. “To tell you the truth, my girl, I was wondering
if the drains are all right! Picturesqueness is all very well--but,
however, we’ll go a bit nearer.”
We went slowly across the park, admiring its sylvan beauties, past the
shining water, past the shy deer, and up to the front of the house,
Madrasia’s ecstasies of admiration increasing with every step we took.
And as for myself, I was beginning to have a great wonder and an
itching curiosity--especially the itching curiosity. What were we doing
here?
But Parslewe seemed to know. He led us straight to the front door,
which stood open.
“This is a show-place on certain days in the week,” he said. “This is
one of those days, so we can go in.”
We went in. An elderly woman appeared. She wore a black silk apron, and
a thin gold chain round her neck; I took these to be symbolic of her
rank and estate as housekeeper. And I noticed that after a first glance
at him, she gave Parslewe a steady, knowing inspection.
“Good morning to you, ma’am,” said Parslewe, with his best
old-fashioned politeness. “I understand we may look round?”
The housekeeper explained. The state rooms, including those once used
by Queen Elizabeth, and the bed in which her Majesty had slept, were
open to inspection. Visitors paid a shilling each; the shillings were
given to the local charities. So Parslewe paid three shillings, and we
all inscribed our names in a book--Parslewe last. And as he laid down
the pen under the housekeeper’s eye, he turned and looked at her.
“Now, ma’am!” he said. “Have you ever seen me before?”
The woman gave him a quiet, watchful look.
“Yes, sir,” she answered readily. “I remember you. You’re the gentleman
who dined here with my late master some three years ago, and spent the
evening with him. But I never heard your name, sir.”
Parslewe nodded, and remarking that there was no need to show us round,
he’d prefer to be left to himself, led us into the hall and up a great
staircase to the state apartments. It was evident at once that he knew
the whole place, and for the next hour he was in his element as guide
while we were lost in wonder and admiration at the things he showed
us. And we were examining the very bed on which Queen Elizabeth had
stretched her limbs when the housekeeper came in, more interested in
Parslewe than ever.
“Sir,” she said, with something of deference. “Sir Charles Sperrigoe’s
compliments, and he awaits your pleasure in the morning-room.”
XII
_The Palkeney Motto_
It was characteristic of Parslewe that he deliberately finished what he
was telling us about Queen Elizabeth and her visit to Palkeney before
he made any move in the direction of Sir Charles Sperrigoe. I am afraid
we only heard a half of what he said; we were both conscious that what
we might hear downstairs was certain to prove of far greater interest
than anything Parslewe could tell us about the sixteenth century.
Personally, I felt a throb of excitement when at last he turned away
from the queer old chamber in which we stood.
“Well, come on!” he said, “I suppose we must see this chap and clear
things up. Didn’t she say the morning-room?”
He seemed to know where that was well enough, and led the way straight
to it; its door was slightly open, and as Parslewe threw it wide we
became aware of Sir Charles, posted on the hearth, his large face
turned expectantly towards us. Its expression was severe, pompous, and
non-committal, but it changed with startling rapidity as his eyes fell
on Parslewe. He almost jumped, indeed--moved, recovered himself, gasped.
“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “My dear sir, surely we have met
before?”
Parslewe laughed sardonically.
“Aye, surely!” he answered, in his most casual fashion. “Neither of us
difficult to recognise, I should think, Sir Charles. And I understand
you’ve met these young people before, too?”
Sir Charles hastened to acknowledge us--perfunctorily; it was evident
that we were very unimportant factors in the situation compared to
Parslewe, upon whom his eyes were fastened with strange interest.
“I have had that pleasure,” he said. “But you, my dear sir--we met, one
night, some--is it two, or is it three years ago?--at the Crown, in our
neighbouring town, where, I believe, you are now staying? I remember
our conversation--instructive and--and enjoyable. Dear me! But I never
knew your name.”
“I knew yours,” said Parslewe, with a grin. “That’s just why I wouldn’t
see you when you came to my house.”
Sir Charles stared--this was beyond him. He looked from one to the
other of us; finally at Parslewe. There was that in his expression
which made me think that he was wondering if Parslewe might not be a
little mad.
“But why, my good sir?” he asked soothingly. “Why? Am I so----”
Parslewe laughed and pointed to the panelling over the big fireplace.
There, carved in oak, was the Palkeney coat-of-arms, and beneath it the
motto that had excited my wonder when I first saw it on the copper box.
“Do you see that?” he asked. “Aye?--well, you see, I have the Palkeney
blood in my veins! And what I please to do, that I do!--without caring
for or consulting anybody. Family characteristic, Sperrigoe! But I
guess you’ve seen it before, eh?”
Sir Charles was still staring at him. He looked like a man who has
unexpectedly got hold of some curious animal and is uncertain what it
is about to do next. But after rubbing his chin a little, he spoke.
“Do I understand you to say that you have the Palkeney blood in your
veins?” he inquired. “Then----”
Parslewe suddenly pointed to the table which stood in the centre of the
room, signing us all to be seated at it; I noticed that he himself took
the chair at its head as with an unchallengeable authority.
“Better sit down and do our business,” he said. Then, as we settled
round the table, Madrasia and I on his right and left hand, and Sir
Charles opposite to him, he put a hand in his coat pocket, drew out the
copper box, and with one of his queer smiles, set it before him. “Do
you know what that is, Sperrigoe?” he asked.
Sir Charles made a wry face.
“The cause of much worry and anxiety to me, my dear sir!” he answered.
“I can see what it is well enough!”
“Aye, and you want to know how I got it, don’t you?” suggested
Parslewe. “So do these young people. I’ll tell you. Old Matthew
Palkeney made me a present of it.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Sir Charles. “You were acquainted with him?”
“Don’t I tell you I’ve got Palkeney blood in my veins?” said Parslewe.
“My great-grandmother was a Palkeney--born in this house. I have
the Palkeney pedigree, and the Parslewe pedigree--at your service,
any time. And when I came to the Crown, on the occasion you’ve just
mentioned, it was just out of curiosity to see this place. I introduced
myself to old Matthew. I’d brought my pedigree with me; we compared
notes and family documents, and enjoyed ourselves. I dined here with
him one night, and we went thoroughly into family history.”
“He was convinced of your relationship?” asked Sir Charles.
“He couldn’t be anything else,” said Parslewe, drily. “The thing’s
there--it’s fact. But we didn’t dwell overmuch on that, once it was
settled. We were more concerned with our mutual taste for old things.
And the next day the old man drove up to the Crown, when I was out,
and left for me a parcel. It contained this copper box, which has been
in the family for I don’t know how long, and some six or seven old
books which I had admired--a nice present. I wrote him a nice letter
in return, and carried my present home. Not knowing, mind you,” added
Parslewe, with a sudden keen look, “what this box contained.”
Sir Charles was getting keenly attentive. He looked like a man who has
become sure that something is going to be sprung on him.
“My dear sir!” he said. “What did it contain?”
Parslewe picked up the copper box and tapped it significantly.
“I never knew that it contained anything until some thirty-six
hours ago!” he answered. “I never should have known if you fellows
hadn’t made such a fuss about it. But when you did--when I found
out from Craye here that you yourself were on the prowl, there in
Northumberland, and after me--well, I naturally began to put two and
two together. And it seemed to me that the secret lay with that man
Bickerdale, to whom I’d entrusted the copper box for repair, and who’d
had it in his hands long enough to find out about it more than I had.
It struck me that Bickerdale, not content with what he’d got out of you
for telling where the box was, had discovered something in it which he
was holding back in hopes of a further and more substantial reward.
So I just went to Newcastle and started to find that out. I did find
it out--and though I’m not clear now as to when Bickerdale found a
certain document in the box, I did find out that he’d not only found
one, but had got it! And in Craye’s presence and in the presence of
your man Pawley, to whom I’d just given a certain piece of confidential
information--I forced it out of Bickerdale. I’ve got it! And it solves
the question that’s been bothering you.”
Sir Charles was getting more and more impatient; his plump white
fingers were drumming on the table. And as Parslewe finished, he voiced
his impatience in a quick, direct question.
“What is this document?”
Parslewe smiled, and turned the copper box over, so that the four
rounded feet at its corners stood uppermost.
“I’ll show it to you now,” he said. “And I’ll show you where old
Matthew Palkeney had hidden it, probably intending before he died to
tell you, Sperrigoe, where it was hidden. Now look here; there’s a
false bottom to this box. You unscrew these knobs so, one after the
other. When they’re unscrewed, like that, you lift this plate; there’s
a thin cavity between it and the inner floor of the box. And here’s the
document. I put it back in the box so that you could see for yourself
where it had been concealed.”
He tossed over the table the envelope which I had seen him take from
Bickerdale. The solicitor picked it up eagerly. He drew out the sheet
of letter paper which lay within, and his sharp, shrewd eyes had read
whatever was written there in a few seconds. He gave a gasp; his big
face flushed; he looked across at Parslewe.
“Good God, my dear sir!” he exclaimed. “Do--do you know what this--what
this--this most important document--is?”
“I do!” replied Parslewe, drily. “But these two don’t.”
Sir Charles turned to us. I think he found some relief for his
astonished feelings in having somebody to announce something to.
“This--this is a will!” he said, in almost awestruck accents. “The will
of my late client, Mr. Matthew Palkeney! Made by himself on a single
sheet of notepaper! But in strict order, duly executed and attested. I
know the witnesses----”
“So do I,” observed Parslewe, with a laugh. “Talked to both of ’em this
morning on the way here.”
“And--and, in short, it is what it is!” continued Sir Charles. “Nothing
can upset it! And in it, in as few words as ever he could use, Mr.
Matthew Palkeney leaves everything of which he dies possessed to--Mr.
Parslewe! Wonderful!”
Parslewe thrust his hands in his pockets.
“I don’t see anything very wonderful about it,” he remarked, coldly.
“We were of the same blood! The old man evidently wanted to--and he
did. But he never consulted me, you know, Sperrigoe.”