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IN THE MAYOR'S PARLOUR
By J. S. FLETCHER
JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD LIMITED
LONDON MCMXXII
SECOND EDITION
_Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner, _Frome and London_.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I THE MAYOR'S PARLOUR 1
II THE CAMBRIC HANDKERCHIEF 14
III THE TANNERY HOUSE 27
IV BULL'S SNUG 41
V SLEEPING FIRES 53
VI THE ANCIENT OFFICE OF CORONER 67
VII THE VOLUNTARY WITNESS 80
VIII MRS. SAUMAREZ 93
IX THE RIGHT TO INTERVENE 107
X THE CAT IN THE BAG 121
XI THE NINETEEN MINUTES' INTERVAL 132
XII CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 143
XIII A WOMAN INTERVENES 153
XIV WHOSE VOICES? 164
XV THE SPECIAL EDITION 174
XVI THE CASTLE WALL 185
XVII IMPREGNABLE 196
XVIII LOOSE STRANDS 208
XIX BLACK SECRETS AND RED TAPE 221
XX THE FELL HAND 235
XXI CORRUPTION 246
XXII THE PARLOUR-MAID 258
XXIII THE CONNECTING WALL 268
XXIV BEHIND THE PANEL 280
XXV THE EMPTY ROOM 291
IN THE MAYOR'S PARLOUR
CHAPTER I
THE MAYOR'S PARLOUR
Hathelsborough market-place lies in the middle of the town--a long,
somewhat narrow parallelogram, enclosed on its longer side by old gabled
houses; shut in on its western end by the massive bulk of the great
parish church of St. Hathelswide, Virgin and Martyr, and at its eastern
by the ancient walls and high roofs of its mediaeval Moot Hall. The inner
surface of this space is paved with cobble-stones, worn smooth by
centuries of usage: it is only of late years that the conservative
spirit of the old borough has so far accommodated itself to modern
requirements as to provide foot-paths in front of the shops and houses.
But there that same spirit has stopped; the utilitarian of to-day would
sweep away, as being serious hindrances to wheeled traffic, the two
picturesque fifteenth-century erections which stand in this
market-place; these, High Cross and Low Cross, one at the east end, in
front of the Moot Hall, the other at the west, facing the chancel of the
church, remain, to the delight of the archaeologist, as instances of the
fashion in which our forefathers built gathering places in the very
midst of narrow thoroughfares.
Under the graceful cupola and the flying buttresses of High Cross the
countryfolk still expose for sale on market-days their butter and their
eggs; around the base of the slender shaft called Low Cross they still
offer their poultry and rabbits; on other than market-days High Cross
and Low Cross alike make central, open-air clubs, for the patriarchs of
the place, who there assemble in the lazy afternoons and still lazier
eventides, to gossip over the latest items of local news; conscious that
as they are doing so their ancestors have done for many a generation,
and that old as they may be themselves, in their septuagenarian or
octogenarian states, they are as infants in comparison with the age of
the stones and bricks and timbers about them, grey and fragrant with the
antiquity of at least three hundred years.
Of all this mass of venerable material, still sound and uncrumbled, the
great tall-towered church at one end of the market-place, and the
square, heavily fashioned Moot Hall at the other, go farthest back,
through association, into the mists of the Middle Ages. The church dates
from the thirteenth century and, though it has been skilfully restored
on more than one occasion, there is nothing in its cathedral-like
proportions that suggests modernity; the Moot Hall, erected a hundred
years later, remains precisely as when it was first fashioned, and
though it, too, has passed under the hand of the restorer its renovation
has only taken the shape of strengthening an already formidably
strong building. Extending across nearly the whole eastern end
of the market-place, and flanked on one side by an ancient
dwelling-house--once the official residence of the Mayors of
Hathelsborough--and on the other by a more modern but still old-world
building, long used as a bank, Hathelsborough Moot Hall presents the
appearance of a mediaeval fortress, as though its original builders had
meant it to be a possible refuge for the townsfolk against masterful
Baron or marauding Scot. From the market-place itself there is but one
entrance to it; an arched doorway opening upon a low-roofed stone hall;
in place of a door there are heavy gates of iron, with a smaller
wicket-gate set in their midst; from the stone hall a stone stair leads
to the various chambers above; in the outer walls the windows are high
and narrow; each is filled with old painted glass. A strong, grim
building, this; and when the iron gates are locked, as they are every
night when the curfew bell--an ancient institution jealously kept up in
Hathelsborough--rings from St. Hathelswide's tower, a man might safely
wager his all to nothing that only modern artillery could effect an
entrance to its dark and gloomy interior.
On a certain April evening, the time being within an hour of
curfew--which, to be exact, is rung in Hathelsborough every night, all
the year round, sixty minutes after sunset, despite the fact that it is
nowadays but a meaningless if time-honoured ceremony--Bunning, caretaker
and custodian of the Moot Hall, stood without its gates, smoking his
pipe and looking around him. He was an ex-Army man, Bunning, who had
seen service in many parts of the world, and was frequently heard to
declare that although he had set eyes on many men and many cities he
had never found the equal of Hathelsborough folk, nor seen a fairer
prospect than that on which he now gazed. The truth was that Bunning was
a Hathelsborough man, and having wandered about a good deal during his
military service, from Aldershot to Gibraltar, and Gibraltar to Malta,
and Malta to Cairo, and Cairo to Peshawar, was well content to settle
down in a comfortable berth amidst the familiar scenes of his childhood.
But anyone who loves the ancient country towns of England would have
agreed with Bunning that Hathelsborough market-place made an unusually
attractive picture on a spring evening. There were the old gabled
houses, quaintly roofed and timbered; there the lace-like masonry of
High Cross; there the slender proportions of Low Cross; there the mighty
bulk of the great church built over the very spot whereon the virgin
saint suffered martyrdom; there, towering above the gables on the north
side, the well-preserved masonry of the massive Norman Keep of
Hathelsborough Castle; there a score of places and signs with which
Bunning had kept up a close acquaintance in youth and borne in mind when
far away under other skies. And around the church tower, and at the base
of the tall keep, were the elms for which the town was famous; mighty
giants of the tree world, just now bursting into leaf, and above them
the rooks and jackdaws circling and calling above the hum and murmur of
the town.
To Bunning's right and left, going away from the eastern corner of the
market-place, lay two narrow streets, called respectively River Gate and
Meadow Gate--one led downwards to the little river on the southern edge
of the town; the other ran towards the wide-spread grass-lands that
stretched on its northern boundary. And as he stood looking about him,
he saw a man turn the corner of Meadow Gate--a man who came hurrying
along in his direction, walking sharply, his eyes bent on the flags
beneath his feet, his whole attitude that of one in deep reflection. At
sight of him Bunning put his pipe in his pocket, gave himself the
soldier's shake and, as the man drew near, stood smartly to attention.
The man looked up--Bunning's right hand went up to his cap in the old
familiar fashion; that was how, for many a long year of service, he had
saluted his superiors.
There was nothing very awe-compelling about the person whom the
caretaker thus greeted with so much punctilious ceremony. He was a
little, somewhat insignificant-looking man--at first sight. His clothes
were well-worn and carelessly put on; the collar of his under-coat
projected high above that of his overcoat; his necktie had slipped round
towards one ear; his linen was frayed; his felt hat, worn anyway, needed
brushing; he wore cotton gloves, too big for him. He carried a mass of
papers and books under one arm; the other hand grasped an umbrella which
had grown green and grey in service. He might have been all sorts of
insignificant things: a clerk, going homeward from his work; a
tax-gatherer, carrying his documents; a rent-collector, anxious about a
defaulting tenant--anything of that sort. But Bunning knew him for Mr.
Councillor John Wallingford, at that time Mayor of Hathelsborough. He
knew something else too--that Wallingford, in spite of his careless
attire and very ordinary appearance, was a remarkable man. He was not a
native of the old town; although he was, for twelve months at any rate,
its first magistrate, and consequently the most important person in the
place, Hathelsborough folk still ranked him as a stranger, for he had
only been amongst them for some twelve years. But during that time he
had made his mark in the town--coming there as managing clerk to a firm
of solicitors, he had ultimately succeeded to the practice which he had
formerly managed for its two elderly partners, now retired. At an early
period of his Hathelsborough career he had taken keen and deep interest
in the municipal affairs of his adopted town and had succeeded in
getting a seat on the Council, where he had quickly made his influence
felt. And in the previous November he had been elected--by a majority of
one vote--to the Mayoralty and had so become the four hundred and
eighty-first burgess of the ancient borough to wear the furred mantle
and gold chain which symbolized his dignity. He looked very different in
these grandeurs to what he did in his everyday attire, but whether in
the Mayoral robes or in his carelessly worn clothes any close observer
would have seen that Wallingford was a sharp, shrewd man with all his
wits about him--a close-seeing, concentrated man, likely to go through,
no matter what obstacles rose in his path, with anything that he took in
hand.
Bunning was becoming accustomed to these evening visits of the Mayor to
the Moot Hall. Of late, Wallingford had come there often, going upstairs
to the Mayor's Parlour and remaining there alone until ten or eleven
o'clock. Always he brought books and papers with him; always, as he
entered, he gave the custodian the same command--no one was to disturb
him, on any pretext whatever. But on this occasion, Bunning heard a
different order.
"Oh, Bunning," said the Mayor, as he came up to the iron gates before
which the ex-sergeant-major stood, still at attention, "I shall be in
the Mayor's Parlour for some time to-night, and I'm not to be disturbed,
as usual. Except, however, for this--I'm expecting my cousin, Mr. Brent,
from London, this evening, and I left word at my rooms that if he came
any time before ten he was to be sent on here. So, if he comes, show him
up to me. But nobody else, Bunning."
"Very good, your Worship," replied Bunning. "I'll see to it. Mr. Brent,
from London."
"You've seen him before," said the Mayor. "He was here last
Christmas--tall young fellow, clean-shaven. You'll know him."
He hurried inside the stone hall and went away by the stairs to the
upper regions of the gloomy old place, and Bunning, with another salute,
turned from him, pulled out his pipe and began to smoke again. He was
never tired of looking out on that old market-place; even in the
quietest hours of the evening there was always something going on,
something to be seen, trivial things, no doubt, but full of interest to
Bunning: folks coming and going; young people sweethearting;
acquaintances passing and re-passing; these things were of more
importance to his essentially parochial mind than affairs of State.
Presently came along another Corporation official, whom Bunning knew as
well as he knew the Mayor, an official who, indeed, was known all over
the town, and familiar to everybody, from the mere fact that he was
always attired in a livery the like of which he and his predecessors had
been wearing for at least two hundred years. This was Spizey, a
consequential person who, in the borough rolls for the time being, was
entered as Bellman, Town Crier, and Mace Bearer. Spizey was a big,
fleshy man, with a large solemn face, a ponderous manner, and small
eyes. His ample figure was habited at all seasons of the year in a
voluminous cloak which had much gold lace on its front and cuffs and
many capes about the shoulders; he wore a three-cornered laced hat on
his bullet head, and carried a tall staff, not unlike a wand, in his
hand. There were a few--very few--progressive folk in Hathelsborough who
regarded Spizey and his semi-theatrical attire as an anachronism, and
openly derided both, but so far nobody had dared to advocate the
abolition of him and his livery. He was part and parcel of the high
tradition, a reminder of the fact that Hathelsborough possessed a
Charter of Incorporation centuries before its now more popular and
important neighbouring boroughs gained theirs, and in his own opinion
the discontinuance of his symbols of office would have been little less
serious than the sale of the Mayor's purple robe and chain of solid
gold: Spizey, thus attired, was Hathelsborough. And, as he was not slow
to remind awe-stricken audiences at his favourite tavern, Mayors,
Aldermen and Councillors were, so to speak, creatures of the moment--the
Mayor, for example, was His Worship for twelve months and plain Mr.
Chipps the grocer ever after--but he, Spizey, was a Permanent
Institution, and not to be moved.
Spizey was on his way to his favourite tavern now, to smoke his
pipe--which it was beneath his dignity to do in public--and drink his
glass amongst his cronies, but he stopped to exchange the time of day
with Bunning, whom he regarded with patronizing condescension, as being
a lesser light than himself. And having remarked that this was a fine
evening, after the usual fashion of British folk, who are for ever
wasting time and breath in drawing each other's attention to obvious
facts, he cocked one of his small eyes at the stairs behind the iron
gates.
"Worship up there?" he asked, transferring his gaze to Bunning.
"Just gone up," answered Bunning. "Five minutes ago."
The Mace-Bearer looked up the market-place, down River Gate and along
Meadow Gate. Having assured himself that there was nobody within fifty
yards, he sank his mellow voice to a melodious whisper, and poked
Bunning in the ribs with a pudgy forefinger.
"Ah!" he said confidingly. "Just so! Again! Now, as a Corporation
official--though not, to be sure, of the long standing that I am--what
do you make of it?"
"Make of what?" demanded the caretaker.
Spizey came still nearer to his companion. He was one of those men who
when disposed to confidential communication have a trick of getting as
close as possible to their victims, and of poking and prodding them.
Again he stuck his finger into Bunning's ribs.
"Make of what, says you!" he breathed. "Ay, to be sure! Why, of all this
here coming up at night to the Moot Hall, and sitting, all alone, in
that there Mayor's Parlour, not to be disturbed by nobody, whosomever!
What's it all mean?"
"No business of mine," replied Bunning. "Nor of anybody's but his own.
That is, so far as I'm aware of. What about it?"
Spizey removed his three-cornered hat, took a many-coloured handkerchief
out of it, and wiped his forehead--he was in a state of perpetual
warmth, and had a habit of mopping his brow when called on for mental
effort.
"Ah!" he said. "That's just it--what about it, do you say? Well, what I
say is this here--'taint in accordance with precedent! Precedent, mark
you!--which is what a ancient Corporation of this sort goes by. Where
should we all be if what was done by our fathers before us wasn't done
by us? What has been, must be! Take me, don't I do what's been done in
this here town of Hathelsborough for time immemorial? Well, then!"
"That's just it," said Bunning. "Well, then? Why shouldn't his Worship
come here at night and stick up there as long as he likes? What's
against it?"
"Precedent!" retorted Spizey. "Ain't never been done before--never!
Haven't I been in the office I hold nigh on to forty years? Seen a many
mayors, aldermen and common councillors come and go in my time. But
never do I remember a Mayor coming here to this Moot Hall of a night,
with books and papers--which is dangerous matters at any time, except
in their proper place, such as my proclamations and the town
dockyments--and sitting there for hours, doing--what?"
Bunning shook his head. He was pulling steadily at his pipe as he
listened, and he gazed meditatively at the smoke curling away from it
and his pipe.
"Well?" he said, after a pause. "And what do you make of it? You'll have
some idea, I reckon, a man of your importance."
Once more the Mace-Bearer looked round, and once more applied his
forefinger to Bunning's waistline. His voice grew deep with confidence.
"Mischief!" he whispered. "Mischief! That's what I make of it! He's up
to something--something what'll be dangerous to the vested interests in
this here ancient borough. Ain't he allus been one o' them
Radicals--what wants to pull down everything that's made this here
country what it is? Didn't he put in his last election address, when he
was a candidate for the Council, for the Castle Ward, that he was all
for retrenchment and reform? Didn't he say, when he was elected
Mayor--by a majority of one vote!--that he intended to go thoroughly
into the financial affairs of the town, and do away with a lot of
expenses which in his opinion wasn't necessary? Oh, I've heard talk--men
in high office, like me, hears a deal. Why, I've heard it said that he's
been heard to say, in private, that it was high time to abolish me!"
Bunning's mouth opened a little. He was a man of simple nature, and the
picture of Hathelsborough without Spizey and his livery appalled him.
"Bless me!" he exclaimed.
"To be sure!" said Spizey. "It's beyond comprehension! To abolish
me!--what, in a manner of speaking, has existed I don't know how long. I
ain't a man--I'm a office! Who'd cry things that was lost--at that there
Cross? Who'd pull the big bell on great occasions, and carry round the
little 'un when there was proclamations to be made? Who'd walk in front
o' the Mayor's procession, with the Mace--what was give to this here
town by King Henry VII, his very self? Abolish me? Why, it's as bad as
talking about abolishing the Bible!"
"It's the age for that sort of thing," remarked Bunning. "I seen a deal
of it in the Army. Abolished all sorts o' things, they have, there. I
never seen no good come of it, neither. I'm all for keeping up the good
old things--can't better 'em, in my opinion. And, as you say, that there
mace of ours--'tis ancient!"
"Nobody but one o' these here Radicals and levellers could talk o' doing
away with such proper institutions," affirmed Spizey. "But I tell
yer--I've heard of it. He said--but you'd scarce believe it!--there was
no need for a town crier, nor a bellman, and, as for this mace, it could
be carried on Mayor's Day by a policeman! Fancy that, now--our mace
carried by a policeman!"
"Dear, dear!" said Bunning. "Don't seem to fit in, that! However," he
added consolingly, "if they did abolish you, you'd no doubt get a
handsome pension."
"Pension!" exclaimed Spizey. "That's a detail!--it's the office I'm
a-considering of. What this here free and ancient borough 'ud look
like, without me, I cannot think!"
He shook his head and went sadly away, and Bunning, suddenly remembering
that it was about his supper-time, prepared to retreat into the room
which he and his wife shared, at the end of the stone hall. But as he
entered the gates, a quick firm footstep sounded behind him, and he
turned to see a smart, alert-looking young man approaching. Bunning
recognized him as a stranger whom he had seen once or twice before, at
intervals, in company with Wallingford. For the second time that night
he saluted.
"Looking for the Mayor, sir?" he asked, throwing the gate open. "His
Worship's upstairs--I was to show you up. Mr. Brent, isn't it, sir?"
"Right!" replied the other. "My cousin left word I was to join him here.
Whereabouts is he in this old fortress of yours?"
"This way, sir," said Bunning. "Fortress, you call it, sir, but it's
more like a rabbit-warren! No end of twists and turns--that is, once you
get inside it."
He preceded Richard Brent up the stone staircase, along narrow corridors
and passages, until he came to a door, at which he knocked gently.
Receiving no reply he opened it and went in, motioning Brent to follow.
But before Bunning had well crossed the threshold he started back with a
sharp cry. The Mayor was there, but he was lying face forward across the
desk--lifeless.