SLEEPING FIRES
Already interested in the Crood family because of what he had seen of
Simon Crood and his niece on the previous evening, Brent looked closely
at the man whom Peppermore pointed out. There was no resemblance in him
to his brother, the Alderman. He was a tall, spare, fresh-coloured man,
apparently about fifty years of age, well-bred of feature, carefully
groomed; something in his erect carriage, slightly swaggering air and
defiant eye suggested the military man. Closer inspection showed Brent
that the grey tweed suit, though clean and scrupulously pressed, was
much worn, that the brilliantly polished shoes were patched, that the
linen, freshly-laundered though it was, was far from new--everything,
indeed, about Krevin Crood, suggested a well-kept man of former
grandeur.
"Decayed old swell--that's what he looks like, eh, Mr. Brent?" whispered
Peppermore, following his companion's thoughts. "Ah, they say that once
upon a time Krevin Crood was the biggest buck in Hathelsborough--used to
drive his horses and ride his horses, and all the rest of it. And
now--come down to that."
He winked significantly as he glanced across the room, and Brent knew
what he meant. Krevin Crood, lofty and even haughty in manner as he was,
had lounged near the bar and stood looking around him, nodding here and
there as he met the eye of an acquaintance.
"Waiting till somebody asks him to drink," muttered Peppermore. "Regular
sponge, he is! And once used to crack his bottle of champagne with the
best!"
"What's the story?" asked Brent, still quietly watching the subject of
Peppermore's remarks.
"Oh, the old one," said Peppermore. "Krevin Crood was once a solicitor,
and Town Clerk, and, as I say, the biggest swell in the place. Making
his couple of thousand a year, I should think. Come down in the usual
fashion--drink, gambling, extravagance and so on. And in the end they
had to get rid of him--as Magistrates' Clerk, I mean: it was impossible
to keep him on any longer. He'd frittered away his solicitor's practice
too by that time, and come to the end of his resources. But Simon was
already a powerful man in the town, so they--he and some others--cooked
things nicely for Krevin. Krevin Crood, Mr. Brent, is one of the
Hathelsborough abuses that your poor cousin meant to rid the ratepayers
of--fact, sir!"
"How?" asked Brent.
"Well," continued Peppermore, "I said that Simon and some others cooked
things for him. Instead of dismissing Krevin for incompetence and
inattention to his duties, they retired him--with a pension. Krevin
Crood, sir, draws a hundred and fifty-six pounds a year out of the
revenues of this rotten little borough--all because he's Simon's
brother. Been drawing that--three pounds a week--for fifteen years now.
It's a scandal! However, as I say, he once had two thousand a year."
"A difference," remarked Brent.
"Ay, well, he adds a bit to his three pound," said Peppermore. "He does
odd jobs for people. For one thing, he carries out all Dr. Wellesley's
medicines for him. And he shows strangers round the place--he knows all
about the history and antiquities of the Castle, St. Hathelswide, and
St. Laurence, and the Moot Hall, and so on. A hanger-on, and a
sponge--that's what he is, Mr. Brent. But clever--as clever, sir, as
he's unprincipled."
"The Croods seem to be an interesting family," observed Brent. "Who is
that girl that I saw last night--the Alderman's niece? Is she, by any
chance, this chap's daughter?"
"Queenie," said Peppermore. "Pretty girl too, that, Mr. Brent. No, sir;
she's this chap's niece, and Simon's. She's the daughter of another
Crood. Ben Crood. Ben's dead--he never made anything out, either--died,
I believe, as poor as a church mouse. Simon's the moneyed man of the
Crood family--the old rascal rolls in brass, as they call it here. So he
took Queenie out of charity, and I'll bet my Sunday hat that he gets out
of her the full equivalent of all that he gives her! Catch him giving
anything for nothing!"
"You don't love Alderman Crood?" suggested Brent.
Peppermore picked up his glass of bitter ale and drank off what
remained. He set down the glass with a bang.
"Wouldn't trust him any farther than I could throw his big carcase!" he
said with decision. "Nor any more than I would Krevin there--bad 'uns,
both of 'em. But hullo! as nobody's come forward this morning, Krevin's
treating himself to a drink! That's his way--he'll get his drink for
nothing, if he can, but, if he can't, he's always got money. Old
cadger!"
Brent was watching Krevin Crood. As Peppermore had just said, nobody had
joined Krevin at the bar. And now he was superintending the mixing of a
drink which one of the shirt-sleeved barmen was preparing for him.
Presently, glass in hand, he drew near a little knot of men, who, in the
centre of the room, were gossiping in whispers. One of the men turned on
him.
"Well, and what's Sir Oracle got to say about it?" he demanded, with
something like a covert sneer. "You'll know all about it, Krevin, I
reckon! What's your opinion?"
Krevin Crood looked over the speaker with a quiet glance of conscious
superiority. However much he might have come down in the world, he still
retained the manners of a well-bred and educated man, and Brent was not
surprised to hear a refined and cultured accent when he presently spoke.
"If you are referring to the unfortunate and lamentable occurrence of
last night, Mr. Spelliker," he answered, "I prefer to express no
opinion. The matter is _sub judice_."
"Latin!" sneered the questioner. "Ay! you can hide a deal o' truth away
behind Latin, you old limbs o' the law! But I reckon the truth'll come
out, all the same."
"It is not a legal maxim, but a sound old English saying that murder
will out," remarked Krevin quietly. "I think you may take it, Mr.
Spelliker, that in this case, as in most others, the truth will be
arrived at."
"Ay, well, if all accounts be true, it's a good job for such as you that
the Mayor is removed," said Spelliker half-insolently. "They say he was
going to be down on all you pensioned gentlemen--what?"
"That, again, is a matter which I do not care to discuss," replied
Krevin. He turned away, approaching a horsy-looking individual who stood
near. "Good-morning, Mr. Gates," he said pleasantly. "Got rid of your
brown cob yet? If not, I was talking to Simpson, the vet, yesterday--I
rather fancy you'd find a customer in him."
Peppermore nudged his companion's arm. Brent leaned nearer to him.
"Not get any change out of him!" whispered Peppermore. "Cool old
customer, isn't he? _Sub judice_, eh? Good! And yet--if there's a man in
all Hathelsborough that's likely to know what straws are sailing on the
undercurrent, Mr. Brent, Krevin Crood's the man! But you'll come across
him before you're here long--nobody can be long in Hathelsborough
without knowing Krevin!"
They left Bull's then, and after a little talk in the market-place about
the matter of paramount importance Brent returned to the _Chancellor_,
thinking about what he had just seen and heard. It seemed to him, now
more assuredly than ever, that he was in the midst of a peculiarly
difficult maze, in a network of chicanery and deceit, in an underground
burrow full of twistings and turnings that led he could not tell
whither. An idea had flashed through his mind as he looked at Krevin
Crood in the broken man's brief interchange of remarks with the
half-insolent tradesman: an idea which he had been careful not to
mention to Peppermore. Krevin Crood, said Peppermore, was mainly
dependent on his pension of three pounds a week from the borough
authorities--a pension which, of course, was terminable at the pleasure
of those authorities; Wallingford had let it be known, plainly and
unmistakably, that he was going to advocate the discontinuance of these
drains on the town's resources: Krevin Crood, accordingly, would be one
of the first to suffer if Wallingford got his way, as he was likely to
do. And Peppermore had said further that Krevin Crood knew all about the
antiquities of Hathelsborough--knew so much, indeed, that he acted as
cicerone to people who wanted to explore the Castle, and the church, and
the Moot Hall. Now, supposing that Krevin Crood, with his profound
knowledge of the older parts of the town, knew of some mysterious and
secret way into the Mayor's Parlour, and had laid in wait there,
resolved on killing the man who was threatening by his reforming actions
to deprive him of his pension? It was not an impossible theory. And
others branched out of it. It was already evident to Brent that Simon
Crood, big man though he was in the affairs of the borough, was a
schemer and a contriver of mole's work: supposing that he and his gang
had employed Krevin Crood as their emissary? That, too, was possible.
Underground work! There was underground work all round.
Then, thinking of Alderman Crood, he remembered Alderman Crood's niece;
her request to him; his promise to her. He had been puzzled, not a
little taken aback by the girl's eager, anxious manner. She had been
quiet and demure enough as she sat by Simon Crood's fire, sewing, in
silence, a veritable modest mouse, timid and bashful; but in that big,
gloomy hall her attitude had changed altogether--she had been almost
compelling in her eagerness. And Brent had wondered ever since, at
intervals, whatever it could be that she wanted with him--a stranger?
But it was near three o'clock now, and instead of indulging in further
surmise, he went off to meet her.
Hathelsborough Castle, once one of the most notable fortresses of the
North, still remained in an excellent state of preservation. Its great
Norman keep formed a landmark that could be seen over many a mile of the
surrounding country; many of its smaller towers were still intact, and
its curtain walls, barbican and ancient chapel had escaped the ravages
of time. The ground around it had been laid out as a public garden, and
its great courtyard turned into a promenade, set out with flowerbeds. It
was a great place of resort for the townsfolk on summer evenings and on
Sundays, but Brent, coming to it in the middle of the afternoon, found
it deserted, save for a few nursemaids and children. He went wandering
around it and suddenly caught sight of Queenie Crood. She was sitting on
a rustic bench in an angle of the walls, a book in her hand; it needed
little of Brent's perception to convince him that the book was unread:
she was anxiously expecting him.
"Here I am!" he said, with an encouraging smile, as he sat down beside
her. "Punctual to the minute, you see!"
He looked closely at her. In the clearer light of day he saw that she
was not only a much prettier girl than he had fancied the night before,
but that she had more fire and character in her eyes and lips than he
had imagined. And though she glanced at him with evident shyness as he
came up, and the colour came into her cheeks as she gave him her hand,
he was quick to see that she was going to say whatever it was that was
in her mind. It was Brent's way to go straight to the point.
"You wanted to speak to me," he said, smiling again. "Fire away!--and
don't be afraid."
The girl threw her book aside, and turned to him with obvious candour.
"I won't!" she exclaimed. "I'm not a bit afraid--though I don't know
whatever you'll think of me, Mr. Brent, asking advice from a stranger in
this barefaced fashion!"
"I've had to seek advice from strangers more than once in my time," said
Brent, with a gentle laugh. "Go ahead!"
"It was knowing that you came from London," said Queenie. "You mightn't
think it but I never met anybody before who came from London. And--I
want to go to London. I will go!"
"Well," remarked Brent slowly, "if young people say they want to go to
London, and declare that they will go to London, why, in my experience
they end up by going. But, in your case, why not?"
The girl sat silent for a moment, staring straight in front of her at
the blue smoke that circled up from the quaint chimney stacks of the
town beneath the Castle. Her eyes grew dreamy.
"I want to go on the stage," she said at last. "That's it, Mr. Brent."
Brent turned and looked at her. Under his calm and critical inspection
she blushed, but as she blushed she shook her head.
"Perhaps you think I'm one of the stage-struck young women?" she said.
"Perhaps you're wondering if I can act? Perhaps----"
"What I'm wondering," interrupted Brent, "is--if you know anything about
it? Not about acting, but about the practical side of the thing--the
profession? A pretty stiff proposition, you know."
"What I know," said Queenie Crood determinedly, "is that I've got a
natural talent for acting. And I'd get on--if only I could get away from
this place. I will get away!--if only somebody would give me a bit of
advice about going to London and getting--you know--getting put in the
way of it. I don't care how hard the life is, nor how hard I'd have to
work--it would be what I want, and better than this anyway!"
"You aren't happy in this town?" suggested Brent.
Queenie gave an eloquent glance out of her dark eyes.
"Happy!" she exclaimed scornfully. "Shut up in that house with Simon
Crood! Would you be? You saw something of it last night. Would you like
to be mewed up there, day in, day out, year in, year out, with no
company beyond him and those two cronies of his, who are as bad as
himself--mean, selfish, money-grubbers! Oh!"
"Isn't your uncle good to you?" asked Brent with simple directness.
"He's been good enough in giving me bed and board and clothing since my
father and mother died six years ago," answered the girl, "and in return
I've saved him the wages of the two servants he ought to have. But do
you think I want to spend all my life there, doing that sort of thing? I
don't--and I won't! And I thought, when I heard that you were a London
man, and a journalist, that you'd be able to tell me what to do--to get
to London. Help me, Mr. Brent!"
She involuntarily held out her hands to him, and Brent just as
involuntarily took them in his. He was a cool and not easily impressed
young man, but his pulses thrilled as he felt the warm fingers against
his own.
"By George!" he exclaimed. "If--if you can act like that----"
"I'm not acting!" she said quickly.
"Well, well, I didn't say you were," he answered with a laugh. "Only if
you could--but of course I'll help you! I'll find out a thing or two
for you: I don't know much myself, but I know people who do know. I'll
do what I can."
The girl pressed his hands and withdrew her own.
"Thank you, thank you!" she said impulsively. "Oh, if you only knew how
I want to get away--and breathe! That house----"
"Look here," interrupted Brent, "you're very candid. I like that--it
suits me. Now, frankly you don't like that old uncle of yours? And just
why?"
Queenie looked round. There was no one near them, no one indeed in
sight, except a nursemaid who wheeled a perambulator along one of the
paths, but she sunk her voice to something near a whisper.
"Mr. Brent," she said, "Simon Crood's the biggest hypocrite in this
town--and that's implying a good deal more than you'd ever think. He and
those friends of his, Mallett and Coppinger, who are always there with
him--ah, they think I know nothing, and understand nothing, but I hear
their schemings and their talk, veiled as it is. They're deep and
subtle, those three--and dangerous. Didn't you see last night that if
you'd sat there till midnight or till morning you'd never have had a
word out of them--a word, that is, that you wanted? You wouldn't!--they
knew better!"
"I got nothing out of them," admitted Brent. He sat thinking in silence
for a time. "Look here," he said at last, "you know what I want to find
out--who killed my cousin. Help me! Keep your eyes and ears open to
anything you see and hear--understand?"
"I will!" answered Queenie. "But you've got a big task before you! You
can be certain of this--if the Mayor was murdered for what you called
political reasons----"
"Well?" asked Brent, as she paused. "Well?"
"It would all be arranged so cleverly that there's small chance of
discovery," she went on. "I know this town--rotten to the core! But I'll
help you all I can, and----"
A policeman suddenly came round the corner of the wall, and at sight of
Brent touched his peaked cap.
"Looking for you, Mr. Brent," he said. "I heard you'd been seen coming
up here. The superintendent would be obliged if you'd step round, sir;
he wants to see you at once, particularly."
"Follow you in a moment," answered Brent. He turned to Queenie as the
man went away. "When shall I see you again?" he asked.
"I always come here every afternoon," she answered. "It's the only
change I get. I come here to read."
"Till to-morrow--or the next day, then," said Brent. He nodded and
laughed. "Keep smiling! You'll maybe play Juliet, or some other of those
old games, yet."
The girl smiled gratefully, and Brent strode away after the policeman.
In a few minutes he was in Hawthwaite's office. The superintendent
closed the door, gave him a mysterious glance, and going over to a
cupboard produced a long, narrow parcel, done up in brown paper.
"A discovery!" he whispered. "It occurred to me this afternoon to have
all the heavy furniture in the Mayor's Parlour examined. No light job,
Mr. Brent--but we found this."
And with a jerk of his wrist he drew from the brown paper a long, thin,
highly polished rapier, the highly burnished steel of which was dulled
along half its length, as if it had been first dimmed and then hastily
rubbed.
"I make no doubt that this was what it was done with," continued
Hawthwaite. "We found it thrust away between the wainscoting and a heavy
bookcase which it took six men to move. And our deputy Town Clerk says
that a few days ago he saw this lying on a side table in the Mayor's
Parlour--his late Worship observed to him that it was an old Spanish
rapier that he'd picked up at some old curiosity shop cheap."
"You'll go into that, and bring it in evidence?" suggested Brent.
"You bet!" replied Hawthwaite grimly. "Oh, we're not going to sleep, Mr.
Brent--we'll get at something yet! Slow and sure, sir, slow but sure."
Brent went away presently, and calling on Tansley, the solicitor, walked
with him to Wallingford's rooms. During the next two hours they
carefully examined all the dead man's private papers. They found nothing
that threw any light whatever on his murder. But they came upon his
will. Wallingford had left all he possessed to his cousin, Richard
Brent, and by the tragedy of the previous night Brent found that he had
benefited to the extent of some fifteen thousand pounds.