BULL'S SNUG
When Brent came again to the centre of the town he found that
Hathelsborough, instead of sinking to sleep within an hour of curfew,
according to long-established custom, had awakened to new life. There
were groups at every corner, and little knots of folk at doors, and men
in twos and threes on the pavement, and it needed no particular
stretching of his ears to inform him that everybody was talking of the
murder of his cousin. He caught fragmentary bits of surmise and comment
as he walked along; near a shadowy corner of the great church he
purposely paused, pretending to tie his shoe-lace, in order to overhear
a conversation between three or four men who had just emerged from the
door of an adjacent tavern, and were talking in loud, somewhat excited
tones: working men, these, whose speech was in the vernacular.
"You can bet your life 'at this job's been done by them whose little
game Wallingford were going to checkmate!" declared one man. "I've allus
said 'at he were running a rare old risk. We know what t' old saying is
about new brooms sweeping clean--all very well, is that, but ye can
smash a new broom if ye use it over vigorously. Wallingford were going
a bit too deeply into t' abuses o' this town--an' he's paid t' penalty.
Put out o' t' way--that's t' truth on it!"
"Happen it may be," said a second man. "And happen not. There's no
denying 'at t' Mayor were what they call a man o' mystery. A mysterious
chap, d'ye see, in his comings and goings. Ye don't know 'at he mayn't
ha' had secret enemies; after all, he were nowt but a stranger i' t'
town--nobbut been here twelve year or so. How do we know owt about him?
It may be summat to do wi' t' past, this here affair. I'm none going t'
believe 'at there's anybody i' Hathelsborough 'ud stick a knife into him
just because he were cleaning up t' town money affairs, like."
"Never ye mind!" asserted the former speaker. "He were going to touch t'
pockets o' some on 'em, pretty considerable, were t' Mayor. And ye know
what Hathelsborough folk is when their pockets is touched--they'll stick
at nowt! He's been put away, has Wallingford, 'cause he were interfering
over much."
Brent walked on, reflecting. His own opinions coincided, uncomfortably
but decidedly, with those of the last speaker, and a rapidly-growing
feeling of indignation and desire for vengeance welled up within him. He
looked round at the dark-walled, closely shuttered old houses about him
with a sense of dull anger--surely they were typical of the reserve, the
cunning watchfulness, the suggestive silences of the folk who lived in
them, of whom he had just left three excellent specimens in Crood,
Mallett and Coppinger. How was he, a stranger, going to unearth the
truth about his cousin's brutal murder, amongst people like these,
endowed, it seemed to him, with an Eastern-like quality of
secretiveness? But he would!
He went on to the rooms in which Wallingford had lived ever since his
first coming to the town. They were good, roomy, old-fashioned
apartments in a big house, cosy and comfortable, but the sight of
Wallingford's study, of his desk, his books and papers, of his favourite
chair and his slippers at the fire, of the supper-table already spread
for him and Brent in an inner parlour, turned Brent sick at heart. He
turned hastily to Wallingford's landlady, who had let him in and
followed him into the dead man's room.
"It's no use, Mrs. Appleyard," he said. "I can't stop here to-night,
anyway. It would be too much! I'll go to the _Chancellor_, and send on
for my luggage."
The woman nodded, staring at him wonderingly. The news had evidently
wrought a curious change in her; usually, she was a cheery,
good-natured, rather garrulous woman, but she looked at Brent now as if
something had dazed her.
"Mr. Brent," she whispered, in awe-stricken accents, "you could have
knocked me down with a feather when they came here and told me. He was
that well--and cheerful--when he went out!"
"Yes," said Brent dully. "Yes." He let his eyes run over the room
again--he had looked forward to having a long, intimate chat with
Wallingford that night over the bright fire, still crackling and
glowing in readiness for host and guest. "Ay, well!" he added. "It's
done now!"
"Them police fellows, Mr. Brent," said the landlady, "have they any idea
who did it?"
"I don't think they've the least idea yet," replied Brent. "I suppose
you haven't, either?"
Mrs. Appleyard, thus spurred to reminiscence, recovered something of her
customary loquaciousness.
"No, to be sure I haven't," she answered. "But I've heard things, and I
wish--eh, I do wish!--that I'd warned him! I ought to ha' done."
"What about?" asked Brent. "And what things?"
The landlady hesitated a little, shaking her head.
"Well, you know, Mr. Brent," she said at last, "in a little town like
this, folk will talk--Hathelsborough's a particular bad place for talk
and gossip; for all that, Hathelsborough people's as secret as the grave
when they like, about their own affairs. And, as I say, I've heard
things. There's a woman comes here to work for me at odd times, a woman
that sometimes goes to put in a day or two at Marriner's Laundry, where
a lot of women works, and I recollect her telling me not so long since
that there was talk amongst those women about the Mayor and his
interfering with things, and she'd heard some of 'em remark that he'd
best keep his fingers out o' the pie or he'd pay for it. No more, Mr.
Brent; but a straw'll show which way the wind blows. I'm sure there was
them in the town that wanted to get rid of him. All the same--murder!"
"Just so," said Brent. "Well, I've got to find it all out."
He went away to the _Chancellor_ Hotel, made his arrangements, sent to
Mrs. Appleyard's for his luggage, and eventually turned into bed.
But it was little sleep that Brent got that night, and he was thankful
when morning came and he could leave his bed and find relief in
activity. He was out and about while the grey mists still hung around
the Hathelsborough elms, and at eight o'clock walked into the
police-station, anxious for news.
Hawthwaite had no news for him. Late the previous night, and early that
morning, the police had carried out an exhaustive search of the old Moot
Hall, and had failed to discover anything that seemed to bear relation
to the crime. Also they had made themselves acquainted with the murdered
man's movements immediately previous to his arrival at the Moot Hall;
there was nothing whatever in them that afforded any clue.
"We know all that he did from five o'clock yesterday afternoon to the
time you found him, Mr. Brent," said Hawthwaite. "He left his office at
five o'clock, and went home to his rooms. He was there till nearly seven
o'clock. He went out then and walked round by Abbey Lodge, where he left
some books--novels, or something of the sort--for Mrs. Saumarez.
Then----"
"Who's Mrs. Saumarez?" asked Brent.
"She's a young widow lady, very wealthy, it's understood, who came to
live in the town some two years ago," replied Hawthwaite. "Very handsome
young woman--you'll be seeing her. Between you and me," he added, with a
knowing glance, "his Worship--late Worship, I should say--had been
showing her great attention, and I don't think she was indifferent to
him--he used to go and dine with her a good deal anyway. However, that's
neither here nor there, just now. He called, I say, at Abbey Lodge, left
these books, and then came on to the Moot Hall, as Bunning said. That's
the plain truth about his movements."
"I don't think his movements matter," observed Brent. "What does matter
is--what were the movements of the murderer, and how did he get into the
Mayor's Parlour? Or was he concealed there when my cousin entered and,
if so, how did he get out and away?"
"Ay, just so, Mr. Brent," agreed Hawthwaite. "As to that, we know
nothing--so far. But it was of importance to find out about your
cousin's own movements, because, you see, he might have been seen, for
instance, in conversation with some stranger, or--or something of that
sort, and it all helps."
"You don't know anything about the presence of any strangers in the town
last night?" inquired Brent.
"Oh, we've satisfied ourselves about that," replied Hawthwaite. "We made
full inquiries last night at the railway station and at the hotels.
There were no strangers came into the town last night, or evening, or
afternoon, barring yourself and a couple of commercial travellers who
are well known here. We saw to that particular at once."
"Then you've really found out--nothing?" suggested Brent.
"Nothing!" asserted Hawthwaite. "But the inquest won't be held until
to-morrow morning, and by then we may know something. And, in the
meantime, there's something you might do, Mr. Brent--I gather that
you're his next-of-kin? Very well, sir, then you might examine his
papers--private papers and so on. You never know what bit of sidelight
you might come upon."
"Very good," said Brent. "But I shall want help--large help--in that.
Can you recommend a solicitor, now?"
"There's Mr. Tansley," replied Hawthwaite. "His office is next door to
his late Worship's--a sound man, Tansley, Mr. Brent. And, if I were you,
I should get Tansley to represent you at the inquest to-morrow--legal
assistance is a good thing to have, sir, at an affair of that sort."
Brent nodded his acquiescence and went back to his hotel. He was
thankful that there were few guests in the house--he had no wish to be
stared at as a principal actor in the unfolding drama. Yet he speedily
realized that he had better lay aside all squeamish feelings of that
sort; he foresaw that the murder of its Mayor would throw Hathelsborough
into the fever of a nine-days' wonder, and that his own activities would
perforce draw attention to himself. And there were things to be done,
and after he had breakfasted he set resolutely and systematically about
doing them. Tansley's office first--he made an arrangement with Tansley
to meet him at Wallingford's rooms that afternoon, to go through any
private papers that might be found there. Then his cousin's
office--there were clerks there awaiting instructions. Brent had to
consult with them as to what was to be done about business. And that
over, there was another and still more difficult task--the arrangements
for Wallingford's interment. Of one thing Brent was determined--whatever
Alderman Crood, as Deputy-Mayor, or whatever the Aldermen and
Councillors of Hathelsborough desired, he, as the murdered man's
next-of-kin, was not going to have any public funeral or demonstration;
it roused his anger to white heat to think of even the bare possibility
of Wallingford's murderer following him in smug hypocrisy to his grave.
And in Brent's decided opinion that murderer was a Hathelsborough man,
and one of high place.
It was nearly noon when he had completed these arrangements, and then,
having no more to do at the moment, he remembered the little newspaper
man, Peppermore, and his invitation to call at the _Monitor_ office. So,
as twelve o'clock chimed and struck from the tower of St. Hathelswide,
he walked up the narrow entry from the market-place, along which the
editor-reporter had shot the previous night, and, after a preliminary
reconnoitring of the premises, tapped at a door marked "Editorial." A
shrill voice bade him enter, and he turned the handle to find himself
inspecting an unusually untidy and littered room, the atmosphere of
which seemed chiefly to be derived from a mixture of gas, paste and
printers' ink. Somewhere beyond sounded the monotonous rumble of what
was probably an old-fashioned printing machine.
A small-figured, sharp-faced, red-haired youngster of apparently fifteen
or sixteen years was the sole occupant of this unsavoury sanctum. He was
very busy--so busy that he had divested himself of his jacket, and had
rolled up his shirt-sleeves. In his right hand he wielded a pair of
scissors; with them he was industriously clipping paragraphs from a pile
of newspapers which lay before him on a side-table. It was evident that
he had a sharp eye for telling stuff, for in the moment which elapsed
after Brent's entrance he had run it over a column, swooped on a likely
item, snipped it out and added it to a heap of similar gleanings at his
elbow. He glanced at his caller with an expression which was of the sort
that discourages wasting of time.
"Mr. Peppermore?" inquired Brent, taking his cue. "In?"
"Out," answered the boy.
"Long?" demanded Brent.
"Can't say," said the busy one. "Might be and mightn't." Then he gave
Brent a close inspection. "If it's news," he added, "I can take it. Is
it?"
"No news," replied Brent. "Mr. Peppermore asked me to call. I'll wait."
He perched himself on the counter, and watched the scissors. "You're the
sub-editor, I reckon?" he said at last with a smile. "Eh?"
"I'm all sorts of things in this blooming office," answered the boy.
"We're short-handed here, I can tell you! Takes me and Mr. P. all our
time to get the paper out. Why, last week, Mr. P. he didn't have time to
write his Editorial! We had to shove an old one in. But lor' bless you,
I don't believe anybody reads 'em! Liveliness, and something about
turnips--that's what our folks likes. However, they'll have some good
stuff this week. We'd a real first-class murder in this town last night.
The Mayor! Heard about it?"
"I've heard," said Brent. "Um! And how long have you been at that job?"
"Twelve months," replied the boy. "I was in the law before that--six
months. But the law didn't suit me. Slow! There's some go in this--bit
too much now and then. What we want is another reporter. Comes hard on
me and Mr. Peppermore, times. I did two cricket matches, a fire, a lost
child, and a drowning case last Saturday."
"Good!" said Brent. "Know any shorthand?"
"I can do a fair bit," answered the man-of-all-work. "Learning. Can
you?"
"Some," replied Brent. "Did a lot--once. What system?"
But just then Peppermore, more in a hurry than ever, came bustling in,
to beam brightly through his spectacles at sight of his visitor.
"Mr. Brent!" he exclaimed. "Delighted, my dear sir, charmed! Not often
our humble roof is extended over a distinguished visitor. Take a chair,
sir--but no! stop! I've an idea." He seized Brent by the lapel of his
coat and became whispering and mysterious. "Step outside," he said.
"Twelve o'clock--we'll go over to Bull's."
"What's Bull's?" asked Brent, as they went out into the entry.
Peppermore laughed and wagged his finger.
"Bull's, sir?" he said. "Bull's?--centre of all the gossip in
Hathelsborough. Come across there and have a quiet glass with me, and
keep your eyes and ears open. I've been trying all the morning to get
some news, ideas, impressions, about the sad event of last night, Mr.
Brent--now, for current criticism, Bull's is the place. All the gossips
of the town congregate there, sir."
"All right," agreed Brent. "Show the way!"
Peppermore led him down the narrow entry, across the market-place, and
into an equally narrow passage that opened between two shops near High
Cross. There Brent found himself confronted by what seemed to be a high,
blank, doorless and windowless wall; Peppermore perceived his
astonishment and laughed.
"Some queer, odd nooks and corners in Hathelsborough, Mr. Brent!" he
said knowingly. "It would take a stranger a long time to find out all
the twists and turns in this old town. But everybody knows the way to
Bull's Snug--and here we are!"
He suddenly made a sharp turn to the right and into another passage,
where he pushed open a door, steered his companion by the elbow through
a dark entry, and thrusting aside a heavy curtain ushered him into as
queer a place as Brent had ever seen. It was a big, roomy apartment,
lavishly ornamented with old sporting prints and trophies of the rustic
chase; its light came from the top through a skylight of coloured glass;
its floor was sawdusted; there were shadowy nooks and recesses in it,
and on one side ran a bar, presided over by two hefty men in their
shirt-sleeves. And here, about the bar, and in knots up and down the
room and at the little tables in the corners, was a noontide assemblage,
every man with a glass in his hand or at his elbow. Peppermore drew
Brent into a vacant alcove and gave him a significant glance.
"I guess there isn't a man in this room, Mr. Brent, that hasn't got his
own theory about what happened last night," he murmured. "I don't
suppose any of 'em know you--they're not the sort of men you'd meet
when you were here before--these are all chiefly tradesmen, betting men,
sportsmen, and so on. But as I say, if you want the gossip of the town,
here's the place! There never was a rumour in Hathelsborough but it was
known and canvassed and debated and improved upon in Bull's, within an
hour. Every scandalmonger and talebearer comes here--and here's," he
continued, suddenly dropping his voice to a whisper, "one of the biggest
of 'em--watch him, and listen to him, if he comes near us. That tall,
thin man, in the grey suit, the man with the grizzled moustache. Listen,
Mr. Brent; I'll tell you who that chap is, for he's one of the queerest
and at the same time most interesting characters in the town. That, sir,
is Krevin Crood, the ne'er-do-weel brother of Mr. Alderman Crood--watch
him!"