THE TANNERY HOUSE
During a moment's impressive silence the three men, standing side by
side at Hawthwaite's desk, stared at the blood-stained memento of the
crime. Each was thinking the same thought--there, before them, was the
life-blood of the man who little more than an hour previously had been
full of energy, forcefulness, ambition. It was Peppermore who first
spoke, in an awe-stricken voice.
"You'll take care of that, Mr. Superintendent?" he said. "A clue!"
"I should just think so!" exclaimed Hawthwaite. He picked up a box of
letter-paper which lay close by, emptied it of its contents, and lifted
the fragment of handkerchief by a corner. "That goes into my safe," he
continued, as he placed his find in the box. "A clue, as you say, and an
important one. That, as you may observe, is no common article; it's a
gentleman's handkerchief--fine cambric. If it had only been the other
part of it, now, there'd probably have been a name on it, or initials
wove into it: there's nothing of that sort, you see, on what's left.
But it's something, and it may lead to a good deal."
He put the cardboard box away in a safe and locked it up; putting the
key in his pocket, he gave Brent an informing glance.
"I've had a word or two with the medical men while I was out there," he
said confidentially. "They say there's no doubt as to how he was killed.
The murderer, they're confident, was standing behind him as he himself
was either writing or looking over the papers on his desk, and suddenly
thrust a knife clean through his shoulders. They say death would be
instantaneous."
"A knife!" muttered Brent.
"Well," continued Hawthwaite, "as regards that, there are all sorts of
knives. It would be a long, thin weapon, said Dr. Wellesley; and Dr.
Barber, he suggested that it was the sort of wound that would be caused
by one of those old-fashioned rapiers. And they did say, both of them,
that it had been used--whatever the weapon was--with great force: gone
clean through."
Peppermore was listening to these gruesome details with all the ardour
of the born news-seeker. But Brent turned away.
"Is there anything I can do?" he asked.
"Why, there isn't," replied Hawthwaite. "The fact is, there is nothing
to do outside our work. The doctors are doing theirs, and there'll have
to be an inquest of course. I've sent to notify Mr. Seagrave, the
coroner, already, and I'm having a thorough search made of the Moot
Hall, and making inquiries about his Worship's last movements. There's
nothing more can be done, at present. One of my men has gone round to
tell his landlady. It's a fortunate thing, Mr. Brent," he added with a
knowing look, "that your cousin wasn't a married man! This would have
been a fine thing to have to break to a man's wife and family! About
relations, now, Mr. Brent, you'll know what to do? I know nothing about
his private affairs."
"Yes," answered Brent. "But I'm much more concerned, just now, about his
public affairs. It seems to me--indeed, it's no use trying to disguise
it--that this has arisen out of the fact that as Mayor of Hathelsborough
he was concerning himself in bringing about some drastic reforms in the
town. You probably know yourself that he wasn't popular----"
"Yes, yes, Mr. Brent," interrupted Hawthwaite. "But then, you know,
murder----! I can't think there's anybody in this place would carry
their likes to that length! Murder!"
"You don't know," said Brent. "But, at any rate, I'm my cousin's nearest
blood-relation, and I'm going to find out who killed him, if it's
humanly possible. Now who is there in the town who knows most about his
public affairs--who is there who's most conversant with whatever it was
that he had in hand?"
Hawthwaite seemed to consider matters.
"Well, Alderman Crood, the tanner, is the Deputy-Mayor," he replied at
last. "I should say he's as good a man to go to as anybody, Mr. Brent.
He's chairman of the Financial Committee too; and it was in financial
matters that Mr. Wallingford was wanting to make these reforms you've
mentioned. If there's anything known--I mean that I don't know--Alderman
Crood's the most likely man to know it."
"Alderman Crood," remarked Peppermore softly, "knows everything that
goes on in Hathelsborough--everything!"
"So to speak; so to speak!" said Hawthwaite. "There are things of
course----"
"Where does Alderman Crood live?" asked Brent. Already he was moving
towards the door. "As I can do nothing here, I'll go to him at once. I'm
not going to leave a stone unturned in this matter, superintendent."
"Quite right, Mr. Brent, quite right! Neither will I," asserted
Hawthwaite. "Alderman Crood lives by his tannery--the far end of the
town. Anybody'll show you the place, once you're past the big church."
"I'm going that way," remarked Peppermore. "Come with me, Mr. Brent." He
led Brent out into St. Lawrence Lane, a narrow thoroughfare at the back
of the Moot Hall, and turning a corner, emerged on the market-place,
over which the night shadows had now fallen. "A terrible affair, this,
Mr. Brent!" he said as they walked along. "And a most extraordinary one
too--it'll be more than a nine days' wonder here. A deep mystery, sir,
and I question if you'll get much light on it where you're going."
"You said that Alderman Crood knew everything," observed Brent.
"Ay!" answered Peppermore, with a short laugh. "But that isn't to say
that he'll tell everything--or anything! Alderman Crood, Mr. Brent, is
the closest man in this town--which is saying a good deal. Since I came
here, sir, ten years ago, I've learnt much--and if you'll drop in at the
_Monitor_ office any time you like, Mr. Brent--mornings preferable--I'll
give you the benefit of my experience: Hathelsborough folk, sir, are, in
my opinion, the queerest lot in all England. But you want to see
Alderman Crood--now, go to the end of the market-place, turn down Barley
Market, and drop a hundred yards or so down the hill at the end--then
you'll smell Crood's tan-yard, even if you don't see it. His is the big,
solid-looking house at the side--you can't miss it."
The editor-reporter shot up an alley at his left, at the head of which
was a lighted window with MONITOR OFFICE on it in black letters; and
Brent went on his way to seek the Deputy-Mayor. As he passed Low Cross,
and the east end of the great church, and turned into the wide,
irregular space called Barley Market, he tried to analyse his feelings
about the tragic event on which he had chanced without warning. He had
left Fleet Street early that afternoon, thinking of nothing but a few
days' pleasant change, and here he was, in that quiet, old-world town,
faced with the fact that his kinsman and host had been brutally murdered
at the very hour of his arrival. He was conscious of a fierce if dull
resentment--the resentment of a tribesman who finds one of his clan done
to death, and knows that the avenging of blood is on his shoulders from
henceforth. He had no particular affection for his cousin, and
therefore no great sense of personal loss, but Wallingford after all was
of his breed, and he must bring his murderer to justice.
Alderman Crood's house, big, broad, high, loomed up across him as the
odours of the tan-yard at its side and rear assailed his nostrils. As he
went towards it, the front door opened a little, and a man came out. He
and Brent met in the light of a street lamp, and Brent recognized a
policeman whom he had seen in the Mayor's Parlour. The man recognized
him, and touched his helmet. Brent stopped.
"Oh," he said, "have you been to tell Mr. Crood of what has happened?"
"Just that, sir," replied the policeman. "He's Deputy-Mayor, sir."
"I know," said Brent. "Then, he's at home?"
"Yes, sir."
Brent was going forward, but a sudden curiosity seized on him. He
paused, glancing at the policeman suggestively.
"Did--did Mr. Crood say anything?" he asked.
The policeman shook his head.
"Nothing, sir, except that he supposed Superintendent Hawthwaite was
seeing to everything."
"Did you happen to tell him that I was here?"
"I did, sir; I said his Worship's cousin from London had just come. No
harm, sir, I hope?"
"Not a bit--glad you did," said Brent. "He'll expect me."
He said good night to the man and walked forward to Alderman Crood's
door. It was like the house to which it gave entrance--very high and
broad, a massive affair, topped by a glass transom, behind which a
light, very dim and feeble, was burning. Brent felt for and rang a bell,
and heard it ring somewhere far off in the house. Then he waited; waited
so long that he was about to ring again, when he heard a bolt being
withdrawn inside the big door; then another. Each creaked in a fashion
that suggested small use, and the need of a little oil. The door opened,
and he found himself confronting a girl, who stood holding a small lamp
in her hand; behind her, at the far end of a gloomy, cavernous hall a
swinging lamp, turned low, silhouetted her figure.
Something about the girl made Brent look at her with more attention than
he would ordinarily have given. She was a tallish girl, whose figure
would have been unusually good had it been properly filled out; as it
was, she was thin, but only too thin for her proportions--her thinness,
had she been three inches shorter, would have passed for a graceful
slenderness. But Brent took this in at a glance; his attention was more
particularly concentrated on the girl's face--a delicate oval, framed in
a mass of dark hair. She was all dark--dark hair, an olive complexion,
large, unusually lustrous dark eyes, fringed by long soft lashes, an
almost dark rose-tint on her cheeks. And in the look which she gave him
there was something as soft as her eyes, which were those of a shy
animal--something appealing, pathetic. He glanced hastily at her
attire--simple, even to plainness--and wondered who she was, and what
was her exact status in that big house, which seemed to require the
services of a staff of domestics.
Brent asked for Alderman Crood. The girl glanced towards the end of the
hall and then looked at him doubtfully.
"What name?" she inquired in tones that were little above a whisper.
"My name's Brent," the caller answered, in a clear, loud voice. Somehow,
he had a suspicion that Crood was listening at the other end of the
cavernous hall. "I am Mr. Wallingford's cousin."
The girl gave him a curious glance and motioning him to wait, went away
up the hall to a door which stood partly open, revealing a lighted
interior. She disappeared within; came out again, walked a little way
towards Brent, and spoke with a timid smile.
"Will you please come this way?" she said. "Mr. Crood will see you."
Brent strode up the hall, the girl, preceding him, pushed open the door
which she had just left. He walked into a big room and, through a fog of
tobacco smoke, saw that he was in the presence of three men, who sat in
arm-chairs round a hearth whereon a big fire of logs blazed. Behind
their chairs a table was set out with decanters and glasses, a
tobacco-jar and cigar-boxes: clearly he had interrupted a symposium of a
friendly and social sort.
The visitor's eyes went straight to the obvious master of the house, a
big, heavily-built, massive-framed man of sixty or thereabouts, who sat
in state on the right-hand side of the hearth. Brent took in certain
details of his appearance at a glance: the broad, flabby,
parchment-hued face, wide mouth, square jaw, and small, shrewd eyes; the
suit of dead-black broadcloth, and the ample black neckcloth swathed
about an old-fashioned collar; he noted, too, the fob which dangled from
Alderman Crood's waist, and its ancient seals and ornaments. A survival
of the past, Alderman Crood, he thought, in outward seeming, but there
was that in his watchful expression which has belonged to man in every
age.
The small shrewd eyes, in their turn, measured up Brent as he crossed
the threshold, and Crood, seeing what he would have described as a
well-dressed young gentleman who was evidently used to superior society,
did what he would certainly not have done for any man in
Hathelsborough--he rose from his chair and stretched out a hand.
"How do you do, sir?" he said in a fat, unctuous voice. "The cousin of
our lamented Mayor, poor gentleman, of whose terrible fate we have this
moment learned, sir. I can assure you, Mr.--Brent, I think?--and
whatever other relations there may be, of our sincere sympathy, sir--I
never knew a more deplorable thing in my life. And to happen just as you
should arrive on a visit to your cousin, Mr. Brent--dear, dear! The
constable who came to inform me of what had happened mentioned that
you'd come, and we were just talking--But I'll introduce you to these
gentlemen, sir; allow me--Mr. Mallett, our esteemed bank manager. Mr.
Coppinger, our respected borough treasurer."
Brent silently shook hands with the two other men; just as silently he
made a sharp inspection of them as they resettled themselves in their
chairs. Mallett, a spick-and-span sort of man, very precise as to the
cut of his clothes and particular as to the quality of his linen and the
trimming of his old-fashioned side-whiskers, he set down at once as the
personification of sly watchfulness: he was the type of person who would
hear all and say no more than was necessary or obligatory. Coppinger, a
younger man, had that same watchful look; a moment later, Brent saw it
in Crood's big face too. They were all watchful, all sly, these men, he
decided: the sort who would sit by and listen, and admit nothing and
tell nothing; already, before even he asked the questions which he had
come to put, he knew that he would get no answer other than
noncommittal, evasive ones. He saw that all three men, instead of being
anxious to give him information, were actuated by the same desire--to
find out what he knew, to hear what he had to say.
Crood, as Brent seated himself, waved a hand towards the decanters on
the table.
"You'll try a little drop o' something, Mr. Brent?" he said, with
insinuating hospitality. "A taste of whisky, now? Do you no harm after
what you've just been through." He turned to the girl, who had followed
Brent into the room and, picking up her needlework, had seated herself
near the master of the house. "Queenie, my love," he continued, "give
the gentleman a whisky and soda--say the word, sir. My niece, sir--Miss
Queenie Crood--all my establishment, Mr. Brent; quiet, old-fashioned
folk we are, but glad to see you, sir; though I wish the occasion had
been a merrier one--dear, dear!"
Brent made the girl a polite bow and, not wishing to show himself
stand-offish, took the glass which she mixed and handed to him. He
turned to Crood.
"It's not a pleasant occasion for me, sir," he said. "I am my cousin's
nearest blood-relative, and it lies with me to do what I can to find out
who's responsible for his death. I understand that you are Deputy-Mayor,
so naturally you're conversant with his public affairs. Now, I've learnt
within the last hour that he had become unpopular in the town--made
enemies. Is that so, Mr. Crood?"
Crood, who was smoking a long churchwarden pipe, took its stem from his
lips, and waved it in the air with an expressive motion.
"Well, well!" he said soothingly. "There might ha' been a little of
something of that sort, you know, Mr. Brent, but in a purely political
sense, sir, an entirely political sense only. No personal feeling, you
know, sir. I'm sure Mr. Mallett there will agree with me--and Mr.
Coppinger too."
"Absolutely!" said Mallett.
"Unreservedly!" said Coppinger.
"Your cousin, sir, our late lamented Mayor, was much respected in the
town," continued Crood. "He was the hardest-working Mayor we've had for
many years, Mr. Brent."
"A first-rate man of business!" observed Mallett.
"A particularly clever hand at figures!" remarked Coppinger.
"A man as tried hard to do his duty," said Crood. "Of course I'll not
say that everybody saw eye to eye with him. They didn't. Wherever
there's public bodies, Mr. Brent, there'll be parties. Your poor cousin
had his party--and there was, to be sure, a party against him and his.
But you'll be well aware, sir, as a London gentleman, that no doubt
often visits Parliament, that here in England men is enemies in politics
that's firm friends outside 'em. I believe I may say that that's a fact,
sir?"
"Oh, no doubt!" agreed Brent. He was already feeling at a loss, and he
scarcely knew what to say next. "I heard, though, that my cousin, as
Mayor, was proposing such drastic reforms in the administration of your
borough affairs, that--well, in short, that personal feeling had been
imported."
Crood shook his head more solemnly than ever.
"I think you've been misinformed on that point, Mr. Brent," he said.
"There may be--no doubt are--mischievous persons that would say such
things, but I never heard nothing of the sort, sir. Political feeling,
perhaps; but personal feeling--no!"
"Certainly not!" said Mallett.
"Nothing of the sort!" said Coppinger.
"Now, I should say," remarked Crood, waving his pipe again, "that our
late lamented Mayor, as an individual, was much thought of amongst the
townspeople. I believe Mr. Mallett will agree with that--and Mr.
Coppinger."
"A great deal thought of," answered Mallett.
"By, I should say, everybody," added Coppinger.
"He was, of course, a comparative stranger," continued Crood. "Twelve
years only had he been amongst us--and now cut off, sudden and
malicious, at the beginning of his career! But well thought of, sir,
well thought of!"
"Then you feel sure that this crime has not sprung out of his public
affairs?" suggested Brent. "It's not what you'd call a political
murder?"
"Of that, sir, I would take my solemn oath!" declared Crood. "The idea,
sir, is ridiculous."
"Absurd!" said Mallett.
"Out of the question!" affirmed Coppinger.
"Why then, has he been murdered?" asked Brent. "What's at the bottom of
it?"
All three men shook their heads. They looked at each other. They looked
at Brent.
"Ay--what?" said Crood.
"Just so!" agreed Mallett.
"That's precisely where it is," concluded Coppinger. "Exactly!"
"More in it than anyone knows of--most probably--at present, Mr. Brent,"
observed Crood, with solemn significance. "Time, sir, time! Time, sir,
may tell--may!"
Brent saw that he was not going to get any information under that roof,
and after a further brief exchange of trite observations he rose to take
his leave. Alderman Crood wrung his hand.
"Sorry I am, sir, that your first visit to my establishment should be
under such painful circumstances," he said unctuously. "I hope you'll
favour me with another talk, sir--always pleased to see a London
gentleman, I'm sure--we're behind, perhaps, in these parts, Mr. Brent,
but honest and hearty, sir, honest and hearty. Queenie, my love, you'll
open the door for the young gentleman?"
The girl took Brent into the gloomy hall. Halfway along its shadows, she
suddenly turned on him with a half shy, half daring expression.
"You are from London?" she whispered.
"From London?--yes," said Brent. "Why?"
"I want to--to talk to somebody about London," she went on, with a
nervous, backward glance at the door they had just left. "May I--will
you let me talk to--you?"
"To be sure!" answered Brent. "But when--where?"
"I go into the Castle grounds every afternoon," she answered timidly.
"Could--could you come there--some time?"
"To-morrow afternoon?" suggested Brent. "Say three o'clock? Would that
do?"
"Yes," she whispered. "Thank you--I'll be there. It seems--queer, but
I'll tell you. Thank you again--you'll understand to-morrow."
She had her hand on the big street door by then. Without more words she
let him out into the night; he heard the door close heavily behind him.
He went back towards the heart of the little town, wondering. Only a few
hours before, he had been in the rush and bustle of Fleet Street, and
now, here he was, two hundred miles away, out of the world, and faced
with an atmosphere of murder and mystery.