THE FELL HAND
Brent heard what the superintendent said, nodded a silent reply, and
five minutes later had put that particular thing clean out of his mind.
During the progress of the Local Government Board inquiry he had learned
something: that men like Tansley and Epplewhite knew a lot more about
Hathelsborough and Hathelsborough folk than he did, or than Wallingford
had known, despite the murdered man's longer experience of town and
people. Reform was not going to be carried out in a day in that
time-worn borough, nor were its ancient customs, rotten and corrupt as
they were, to be uprooted by newspaper articles. So far, Simon Crood and
his gang had won all along the line, and Brent realized that most men in
his position would have given up the contest and retired from the field
in weariness and disgust. But he was not going to give up, nor to
retire. He had a feeling, amounting to something near akin to a
superstition, that it was his sacred duty to carry on his dead cousin's
work, especially as Wallingford, by leaving him all his money, had
provided him with the means of doing it. There in Hathelsborough he was,
and in Hathelsborough he would stick, holding on like a bulldog to the
enemy.
"I'm not counted out!" he said that evening, talking the proceedings of
the day over with Queenie. "I'm up again and ready for the next round.
Here I am, and here I stop! But new tactics! Permeation! that's the
ticket. Reckon I'll nitrate and percolate the waters of pure truth into
these people in such a fashion that they'll come to see that what that
old uncle of yours and his precious satellites have been giving 'em was
nothing but a very muddy mixture. Permeation! that's the game in
future."
Queenie scarcely knew what he meant. But she gathered a sense of it from
the set of his square jaw and the flash of his grey eyes; being
increasingly in love with him, it was incomprehensible to her that
anybody could beat Brent at any game he took a hand in.
"The inquiry was all cut-and-dried business," remarked Queenie.
"Arranged! Of course the accounts and things would be cooked. Uncle
Simon and Mallett and Coppinger would see to that. They'll have an extra
bottle to-night over this victory. And if they could only hear to-morrow
that you're going to clear out their joy would be full."
"Well, I'm not!" declared Brent. "Instead of clearing out, I'm going to
dig in. I guess they'll find me entrenched harder than ever before long.
We'll get on at that to-morrow, now that this all-hollow inquiry's
over."
Queenie understood him perfectly that time. He and she were furnishing
the house which Brent had purchased in order to get a properly legal
footing in Hathelsborough. It was serious and occasionally deeply
fascinating work, necessitating much searching of the shops wherein
antique furniture was stored, much consultation with upholsterers and
decorators, much consideration of style and effect. Brent quickly
discovered that Queenie was a young woman of artistic taste with a
natural knowledge and appreciation of colour schemes and values; Queenie
found out that Brent had a positive horror of the merely modern.
Consequently, this furnishing and decorating business took up all their
spare time: Queenie eventually spent all hers at the house,
superintending and arranging; Brent was there when he was not writing
his _Monitor_ articles or interviewing Hawthwaite. The unproductive
inquiry had broken into this domestic adventure; Brent now proposed to
go ahead with it until it was finished; then he and Queenie would
quietly get married and settle down. Hathelsborough, he remarked, might
not want him, but there in Hathelsborough he had set up his tent, and
the pegs were firmly driven in.
On the day succeeding the Local Government Board inquiry Brent and
Queenie had spent morning, afternoon, and the first part of the evening
at the house, at the head of a small gang of workmen, and had reduced at
least half of the chaos to order. As dusk grew near Brent put on his
coat and gave Queenie one of his looks which signified that there was no
answer needed to what he was about to say.
"That's enough!" said Brent. "Dog tired! Now we'll go round to the
_Chancellor_ and get the best dinner they can give us. Put on your hat!"
Queenie obeyed, readily enough: she was in that stage whereat a young
woman finds obedience the most delightful thing in the world. Brent
locked up the house, and they went away together towards the hotel. In
the old market square the lamps were just being lighted; as usual there
were groups of townsfolk gathered about High Cross and Low Cross, and
the pavements were thronged with strolling pedestrians. Something
suggested to Brent that all these folk were discussing some news of
moment; he heard excited voices; once or twice men glanced inquisitively
at Queenie and himself as they walked towards the _Chancellor_; on the
steps outside the hotel a knot of men, amongst them the landlord, were
plainly in deep debate. They became silent as Queenie and Brent passed
in, and Brent, ushering Queenie into the inner hall, turned back to
them.
"Something going?" he asked laconically.
The men looked at each other; the landlord, with a glance in Queenie's
direction, replied, lowering his voice:
"Then you haven't heard, Mr. Brent?" he said. "I thought you'd have
known. Hawthwaite's arrested Krevin Crood for the murder."
In spite of his usual self-possession, Brent started.
"What!" he exclaimed. "Krevin!"
"Krevin," answered the landlord. "And Simon! Both of 'em. Got 'em at
seven o'clock. They're in the police station--cells of course. Nice
business--Mayor of a town arrested for the murder of his predecessor!"
"As far as I can make out, Simon's charged with being accessory,"
remarked one of the other men. "Krevin's the culprit-in-chief."
"Well, there they both are anyway," said the landlord. "And, if I know
anything about the law, it's as serious a thing to be accessory to a
murder as to be the principal in one. What do you say, Mr. Brent?"
Brent made no reply. He was thinking. So this was what Hawthwaite had
meant when he said, the day before, that all was ready? He wished that
Hawthwaite had given him a hint, or been perfectly explicit with him.
For there was Queenie to consider.
And now, without further remark to the group of gossipers, he turned on
his heel and went back to her and took her into the coffee-room and to
the table which was always specially reserved for him. Not until Queenie
had eaten her dinner did he tell her of what he had learned.
"So now there's going to be hell for a time, girlie," he said in
conclusion. "No end of unpleasantness for me--and for you, considering
that these men are your folk. And so all the more reason why you and I
stick together like leeches--not all the Simons and the Krevins in the
world are going to make any difference between you and me, and we'll
just go forward as if they didn't exist, whatever comes out. And now,
come along and I'll see you home to Mother Appleyard's, and then I'll
drop in on Hawthwaite and learn all about it."
"Do--do you think they did it?" asked Queenie in a fearful whisper.
"Actually?"
"God knows!" muttered Brent. "Damned if I do, or if I know what to
think. But Hawthwaite must have good grounds for this!"
He saw Queenie safely home to Mrs. Appleyard's and hurried off to the
police station, where he found the superintendent alone in his office.
"You've heard?" said Hawthwaite.
"I've heard," replied Brent. "I wish you'd given me an idea--a hint."
Hawthwaite shook his head. There was something peculiarly emphatic in
the gesture.
"Mr. Brent," he said solemnly. "I wouldn't have given the King himself a
hint! I'd reasons--good reasons--for keeping the thing a profound secret
until I could strike. As it is, I've been foiled. I've got Krevin Crood,
and I've got Simon Crood--safely under lock and key. But I haven't got
the other two!"
"What other two?" exclaimed Brent.
Hawthwaite smiled sourly.
"What other two?" he repeated. "Why, Mallett and Coppinger! They're off,
though how the devil they got wind of what was going on I can't think.
Leaked out, somehow."
"You suspect them too?" asked Brent.
"Suspect!" sneered Hawthwaite. "Lord! You wait till Simon and Krevin are
brought up before the magistrates to-morrow morning! We've got the whole
evidence so absolutely full and clear that we can go right full steam
ahead with the case to-morrow. Meeking'll prosecute, and I hope to get
'em committed before the afternoon's over."
"Look here," said Brent, "tell me--what's the line? How does the thing
stand?"
"Thus," replied Hawthwaite. "We shall charge Krevin with the murder of
your cousin, and Simon with being accessory to the fact."
"Before or after?" asked Brent.
"Before!"
"And those other two--Mallett and Coppinger?"
"Same charge as Simon."
Brent took a turn or two about the room.
"That," he remarked, pausing at last in front of Hawthwaite's desk,
"means that there was a conspiracy?"
"To be sure!" assented Hawthwaite. "Got proof of it!"
"Then I wish you'd laid hands on Mallett and Coppinger," said Brent.
"You've no idea of their whereabouts, I suppose?"
"None, so far," replied Hawthwaite. "Nor can I make out how or precisely
when they slipped off. But they are off. Oddly enough, Mrs. Mallett's
back in the town--I saw and spoke to her an hour ago. Of course she
knows nothing about Mallett. She didn't come back to him. I don't know
what she came back for. She's staying with friends, down Waterdale."
"What time will these men be brought up to-morrow morning?" asked Brent.
"Ten o'clock sharp," answered Hawthwaite. "And I hope that before the
end of the afternoon they'll have been fully committed to take their
trial! As I said just now, we can go straight on. Careful preparation
makes speedy achievement, Mr. Brent! And by the Lord Harry, we've done
some preparing!"
"If only the whole thing is cleared ... at last," said Brent quietly.
"You think ... now ... it will be?"
Hawthwaite smacked his hand on his blotting-pad.
"Haven't the shadow of a doubt, Mr. Brent, that Krevin Crood murdered
your cousin!" he asserted. "But you'll hear for yourself to-morrow. Come
early. And a word of advice----"
"Yes?" Brent inquired.
"Leave your young lady at home," said Hawthwaite. "No need for her
feelings to be upset. They're her uncles, these two, after all, you
know. Don't bring her."
"No; of course," assented Brent. "Never intended to."
He went away to his hotel, sorely puzzled. Hawthwaite seemed positively
confident that he had solved the problem at last; but was Hawthwaite
right? Somehow, Brent could scarcely think of Krevin Crood as a
cold-blooded murderer, nor did it seem probable to him that calculating,
scheming men like Simon Crood, Mallett, and Coppinger would calmly plot
assassination and thereby endanger their own safety. One thing, anyway,
seemed certain--if Wallingford's knowledge of the financial iniquities
of the Town Trustees was so deep as to lead them to commit murder as the
only way of compelling his silence, then those iniquities must have been
formidable indeed and the great and extraordinary wonder was that they
had just been able to cloak them so thoroughly and successfully.
He was early in attendance at the court-room of the Moot Hall next
morning, and for a particular reason of his own selected a seat in close
proximity to the door. Long before the magistrates had filed on to the
bench, the whole place was packed, and Hawthwaite, passing him,
whispered that there were hundreds of people in the market square who
could not get in. Everybody of any note in Hathelsborough was present;
Brent particularly observed the presence of Mrs. Mallett who, heavily
veiled, sat just beneath him. He looked in vain, however, for Mrs.
Saumarez; she was not there. But in a corner near one of the exits he
saw her companion, Mrs. Elstrick, the woman whom Hawthwaite had seen in
secret conversation with Krevin Crood in Farthing Lane.
Tansley caught sight of Brent, and leaving the solicitors' table in the
well of the court went over to him.
"What're you doing perched out there?" he asked. "Come down with
me--I'll find room for you."
"No," said Brent. "I'm all right here; I may have to leave. And I'm not
on in this affair. It's Hawthwaite's show. And is he right, this time?"
"God knows!" exclaimed Tansley. "He's something up his sleeve anyway.
Queerest business ever I knew! Simon! If it had been Krevin alone, now.
Here, I'll sit by you--I'm not on, either--nobody's instructed me. I
say, you'll not notice it, but there's never been such a show of
magistrates on that bench for many a year, if ever. Crowded! every
magistrate in the place present. And the chief magistrate to be in the
dock presently! That's dramatic effect, if you like!"
Brent was watching the dock: prisoners came into it by a staircase at
the back. Krevin came first: cool, collected, calmly defiant--outwardly,
he was less concerned than any spectator. But Simon shambled heavily
forward, his big, flabby face coloured with angry resentment and shame.
He beckoned to his solicitor and began to talk eagerly to him over the
separating partition; he, it was evident, was all nerves and eagerness.
But Krevin, after a careful look round the court, during which he
exchanged nods with several of his acquaintance, stood staring
reflectively at Meeking, as if speculating on what the famous barrister
was going to say in opening the case.
Meeking said little. The prisoners, he observed, addressing the bench in
quiet, conversational tones, were charged, Krevin Crood with the actual
murder of the late Mayor, John Wallingford; Simon, with being accessory
to the fact, and, if they had not absconded during the previous
twenty-four hours, two other well-known residents of the borough,
Stephen Mallett and James Coppinger, would have stood in the dock with
Simon Crood, similarly charged. He should show their worships by the
evidence which he would produce that patient and exhaustive
investigation by the local police had brought to light as wicked a
conspiracy as could well be imagined. There could be no doubt in the
mind of any reasonable person after hearing that evidence, that Simon
Crood, Mallett and Coppinger entered into a plot to rid themselves of a
man who, had his investigations continued, would infallibly have exposed
their nefarious practices to the community, nor that they employed
Krevin Crood to carry out their designs. He would show that the murder
of Wallingford was deliberately plotted at Mallett's house, between the
four men, on a certain particular date, and that Krevin Crood committed
the actual murder on the following evening. Thanks to the particularly
able and careful fashion in which Superintendent Hawthwaite had
marshalled the utterly damning body of evidence against these men, their
Worships would have no difficulty in deciding that there was a _prima
facie_ case against them and that they must be committed to take their
trial at the next Assizes.
Hawthwaite, called first, gave evidence as to the arrest of the two
prisoners. He arrested Krevin Crood in the passage leading from Bull's
Snug about 6.30 the previous evening, and Simon at his own home, half an
hour later. Krevin took the matter calmly, and merely remarked that he,
Hawthwaite, was making the biggest mistake he had ever made in his life;
Simon manifested great anger and indignation, and threatened an action
for false imprisonment. When actually charged neither of the accused
made any answer at all.
The superintendent stood down, and Meeking looked towards an inner door
of the court. An attendant came forward at his nod, bearing a heavy
package done up in Crown canvas and sealed. At the same moment a
smart-looking young man answered to the name of Samuel Owthwaite and
stepped alertly into the witness-box.