Part 7

“Did Mr. Parslewe speak to you of any possible danger, Mr. Craye, as regards what he was after?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you precisely what he did say,” I answered. “He said, ‘Not so much danger as difficulty, though I won’t deny that there may be danger.’ His exact words!”

“Just so,” he remarked. “And he didn’t tell you much more?”

“He told me nothing, except that he was hoping to get hold of a possible something,” I replied. “If you know Mr. Parslewe, you know that on occasion, when it suits him, he can be both vague and ambiguous.”

“I know Mr. Parslewe--well enough!” he answered, with a sly chuckle. “Highly eccentric gentleman, Mr. Parslewe, and uncommonly fond of having his own way, and going his own way, and taking his own line about everything. There isn’t one of his brother magistrates in all Northumberland who isn’t aware of that, Mr. Craye! Then, you have no idea of where we are going just now?”

“No idea whatever!” I answered.

“Well, as he said you could go with us, I may as well tell you,” he remarked, with another laugh. “We’re going to the house and shop of one Bickerdale, a whitesmith and coppersmith, in a side street just up here. That’s where Mr. Parslewe’s gone.”

Of course, I might have known it! I felt myself an ass for not having thought of it before. But I started, involuntarily.

“The name seems familiar to you,” suggested the inspector.

“Yes, I know it!” I asserted. “I’ve been in that shop. Oh! so he’s there, is he?”

“That’s where we’re to look for him, anyway,” he replied. “But whether we do find him there, or, if we do, under what conditions it’ll be, that I don’t know. However, we’re carrying out his instructions, and here’s the corner of the street.”

I knew that corner well enough, and the street, too. It was there that I had shadowed White Whiskers and the Newcastle solicitor, and thence that I had retreated after my passage-at-arms with Bickerdale. Presently we stood before the side door of Bickerdale’s shop, the door which presumably led to his house at the rear. There was no light visible through the transom over the door, none in the shop window, none in the windows over the shop. And when the plain-clothes man, in response to the inspector’s order, rang the bell and knocked in addition, no reply came.

It was not until we had knocked and rung three times, each more loudly and urgently, that we heard sounds inside the door. They were the sounds of somebody cautiously drawing back a bolt and turning a key. But no light showed through keyhole or letter-box, or the glass in the transom, and the inspector gave his man a whispered instruction.

“Turn your lamp full on whoever opens the door!” he said. “And get a foot over the threshold.”

I held my breath as the door was opened. It moved back; the plain-clothes man’s light from a bull’s-eye lantern flashed on a frightened, inquiring face looking round the edge of the door.

_Weech!_

I could have laughed aloud as Weech turned and fled, for he let out a squeal at the sight of us, and bolted for all the world like a frightened rabbit. And, of course, he left the door wide open, and we were at once on his heels, and after him down the passage. He swept aside a curtain, flung open a door behind it, and burst into a well-lighted parlour or living-room with a sharp cry of warning.

“Police!”

I got a full view of the men in that room in one quick glance from between the two policemen as they walked in. There was a table in its centre, an oblong table; at our end of it, with his back to us, sat Parslewe, calmly smoking a cigar; at the other, morose, perplexed, defiant, sat Bickerdale. And behind Bickerdale, leaning against a dresser or sideboard, stood Pawley!

These three all looked towards us as we entered, each with a different expression. Bickerdale’s face became angry, almost savage; Pawley appeared, after his first glance of surprise, to be intensely annoyed. But Parslewe, half turning, motioned to the inspector and whispered a few words to him; the inspector, his plain-clothes man, and myself remained after that in the doorway by which we had entered, and Parslewe gave his attention to Bickerdale, to whose side, near the fireplace, Weech, still nervous and upset, had made his way round the table.

“Now then, Bickerdale!” he said. “Without any more to do about it, you’ll give me that document--you, or Weech, or both of you! Do you hear--hand it over!”

“No!” exclaimed Pawley. “I object. If there’s any handing over, Mr. Parslewe, it’ll be to me. And as you’ve brought police here, I’d better say at once that----”

Parslewe suddenly rose from his chair. He held up his left hand--towards Pawley. There was something in the gesture that made Pawley break off short in his words and remain silent. As for Parslewe’s right hand, it went into his pocket and brought out his cigar case. Silently he handed it to the inspector, motioning him to help himself and to pass it to his man. Then he turned to Pawley again.

“Mr. Pawley!” he said in his most matter-of-fact tones. “It’s very evident to me that you and I had better have a little conversation in strict privacy. Bickerdale!--where have you a spare room?”

Bickerdale turned to Weech, growling something that sounded more like a curse than an intimation. But Weech opened a door in the rear of the room, and revealed a lighted kitchen place, and Parslewe, motioning Pawley to follow him, went within. The door closed on them.

They were in that kitchen a good half-hour. As for those of us--five men--who were left in the sitting-room, we kept to our respective camps. Bickerdale and Weech, at their end of the place, hung together, eyeing us furtively, and occasionally whispering. Weech in particular looked venomous, and by that time I had come to the conclusion that he had bluffed Madrasia and myself very cleverly on the occasion of his visit to Kelpieshaw. As for the inspector and his man and myself, we sat in a line, on three very stiff-seated, straight-backed chairs, smoking Parslewe’s cigars, for lack of anything better to do, and watched and waited. Only once during that period of suspense did any of us speak; that was when the inspector, happening to catch my eye, gave me a quiet whisper.

“Queer business, Mr. Craye!” he said. “Odd!”

“Very,” said I.

He smiled and looked round at his man. But the man was one of those stolid-faced individuals who seem as if nothing could move them; also, he appeared to be relishing Parslewe’s cigar. With this in one corner of his lips he sat immovable, watching the door through which Parslewe and Pawley had vanished. I think he never took his eyes off it; anyway, my recollection of him is as of a man who could sit down and watch a thing or a person for hours and hours and hours, without as much as flickering an eyelid--an uncanny, uncomforting man--doubtless fitted, by some freak of nature, to his trade of sleuth-hound.

As for me, I was wondering all round the affair. What was Parslewe after? What was Pawley doing there? Who was Pawley, anyway? Why, at that juncture, when his reinforcements had come up, did Parslewe want to parley with Pawley? For a parley it was that was going on in that kitchen, without a doubt. We heard nothing; there were no raised voices, no evidence of any angry or wordy discussion. All we heard was an occasional whisper from Weech, a muttered growl from Bickerdale in response. But on the hearth a kettle was singing, and at a corner of the rug, near Bickerdale’s slippered feet, a cat sat and purred and purred....

The door of the kitchen suddenly opened; just as suddenly I saw that whatever had been said, or whatever had taken place in that kitchen, a marvellous transformation had developed in Pawley’s manner. He held open the door for Parslewe, and stood aside deferentially as Parslewe passed him. When he followed Parslewe into the parlour it was with the air of a man who has either met his master or been made subject to some revelation. And it was he who spoke first--in answer to a nod from Parslewe. He turned to Bickerdale.

“Mr. Bickerdale!” he said in suave, placatory tones. “I think you’d better do what Mr. Parslewe asks! I--I’ve had some conversation with Mr. Parslewe, and--and I think that’s what you’d better do, Mr. Bickerdale--just so!”

Bickerdale turned on him with a sudden glare which denoted nothing but sheer surprise. I could see that the man was fairly astonished--amazed.

“Why--why!” he exclaimed. “It was you--you!--that told me just now to do nothing of the sort!”

Pawley smiled in a queer, sickly, deprecating sort of fashion.

“Circumstances alter cases, Mr. Bickerdale,” he said. “I--I didn’t know then what I know now. My advice is, now--do as Mr. Parslewe wants.”

Weech sprang to his feet--an epitome of anger and chagrin.

“But us!” he vociferated. “Us--me and him! What are we going to get out of it? Where shall we profit?” He turned almost savagely on Bickerdale. “Don’t!” he went on. “Don’t you do it! Never mind those fellows over there! there’s no police business in this that I know of, and----”

“I’ll give you in charge of the police in two minutes, my lad!” said Parslewe suddenly. “Just to show you----”

“Mr. Bickerdale,” said Pawley. “Take my advice! I--I understand--from Mr. Parslewe--you’ll not be a loser.”

Bickerdale gave him a searching look. Then, suddenly, he thrust a hand into his inner breast pocket and drew out a small square envelope, which, with equal quickness, he handed across the table to Parslewe. In its passage, the light from the lamp gleamed upon this envelope; it seemed to me that I saw a crest on the flap.

“Rid of it now, anyway!” growled Bickerdale, sullenly. “Done!”

We were all watching Parslewe. He drew back to a corner of the room, where a second lamp stood on a wall bracket. Beneath this he turned the envelope over, examining it back and front; I saw then that it had been slit open by Bickerdale or Weech, or somebody through whose hands it had passed. And out of it Parslewe drew what seemed to be an ordinary sheet of notepaper. Whatever was written on it, he had read through in a minute. There were six pairs of eyes watching him, but you might as well have hoped to get news out of a stone wall as gain any information from his face; it was more inscrutable and impassive than I had ever seen it. He showed nothing--and suddenly he thrust paper and envelope into his pocket, sat down at the table, pulled out a cheque-book and a fountain-pen, and began to write. A moment later, he threw a cheque across to Bickerdale; then, without a word to him, or to Weech, or to Pawley, he strode out, motioning us to follow.

We made a little procession down town. Parslewe and the inspector walked first; I heard them talking about county business--the levying of a new rate, or some triviality of that sort. The plain-clothes man and I brought up the rear; we talked about the weather, and he told me that he had an allotment garden somewhere on the outskirts and wanted rain for what he had just planted. Presently we all parted, and Parslewe and I went to the hotel and up to the private sitting-room. There was whisky and soda on the sideboard, and he mixed a couple of glasses, handed me one, and drank his own off at a draught. Then, when I had finished mine, he gave me a questioning look.

“Bed, my lad?” he suggested. “Just so! Come on, then--your room’s next to mine; we’ll go together.” We walked along the corridor outside. “Do you want an idea--not an original one--to go to bed with, Craye?” he asked abruptly, as we reached our doors. “I’ll give you one. There are some damned queer things in this world!”

Then, with one of his loud, sardonic peals of laughter, he shook my hand and shot into his room.

X

_Known at the Crown_

The various doings of that evening had not been of a nature that conduced to sleep, and I lay awake for a long time wondering about them. Naturally, my speculations chiefly ran on what I had seen in Bickerdale’s back parlour. How came Pawley there? What did Parslewe say to Pawley in that kitchen that made Pawley suddenly transformed into a state of almost servile acquiescence in Parslewe’s further doings? What was the document that Bickerdale handed over to Parslewe? Had Bickerdale found it during his repairing of the copper box, or had Augustus Weech abstracted it when Madrasia and I left him alone in the parlour at Kelpieshaw? All these questions ran helter-skelter through my brain as I lay there, anything but sleepy, and, needless to say, I hadn’t satisfactorily answered one of them when at last I dropped off to a more or less uneasy slumber. The truth was that in spite of various developments the whole thing, at two o’clock that morning, was to me a bigger and more exasperating mystery than ever.

And it was still there when I woke, sharply, at six o’clock; so much so, indeed, that I felt as if I should like to march into Parslewe’s room next door, shake him out of his no doubt sound sleep, and tell him that he’d got to make a clean breast of things, there and then. As I knew no man in the world less likely to be forced into confession until such time as he chose to speak, I took another course to calm my perplexed state of mind. I rose, shaved, dressed, and going downstairs, went out into the big station. Railway stations, at any hour of the day, but especially early in the morning, have a fascination for me--the goings and comings of the first trains, the gradually increasing signs of waking up, the arrival of the newspapers and opening of the bookstalls, even the unloading and carrying away of the milk cans, are sources of mighty attraction. I lounged about for some time, watching and observing; finally, as the hands of the clock pointed to seven, and knowing that neither Parslewe nor Madrasia would be ready for breakfast much before nine, I turned into the refreshment room for a cup of coffee. And there at the counter, a suit-case at his feet and a rug over his arm, stood Pawley.

Pawley gave me a smile which was half bland and half sickly, and wholly mysterious. And suddenly feeling that I had as good a right as another to indulge an entirely natural sense of inquisitiveness, I went up to him and bade him good morning. He responded civilly enough, and it struck me that he was rather glad to see me and not indisposed to talk. He was eating bread and butter and sipping tea; I got some coffee and biscuits, and for a moment or two we stood side by side, silent. But I had an idea that Pawley wanted me to speak.

“Leaving?” I asked, with a glance at his belongings.

“That’s it, Mr. Craye,” he replied, almost eagerly. “By the seven-forty, sir. I’m through with my job after last night.”

I noticed a difference in his tone and manner. He was no longer the amateur antiquary, affecting a knowledge and a jargon carefully acquired; he talked like what he probably was, an inquiry agent of some sort. And in consonance with my previous feeling of intuition, I thought that however much he might keep back, he was not against communicating some of his knowledge.

“Last night’s proceedings,” I remarked, “were somewhat mysterious, Mr. Pawley.”

“Mysterious!” he exclaimed. “I believe you! I’ve been concerned in some queer things in my time, Mr. Craye, but in none queerer than this! Beyond me! But no doubt you know more than I do.”

“I know nothing,” I answered. “Nothing, that is, beyond what I’ve seen. And what I’ve seen I haven’t understood. For instance, I didn’t understand how you came to be at Bickerdale’s last night.”

“Oh, that’s easy!” he said. “I was left here to keep an eye on Bickerdale and to get in touch with him. And, incidentally, to find out, if I could, whether Bickerdale had discovered anything in that copper box when he had it.”

“Did anybody suspect that something might have been concealed in the copper box?” I asked.

“To be sure, Mr. Craye! Sir Charles Sperrigoe suspected--does suspect. That’s what he sent me up here for--to take a preliminary look round. Then--came himself. Gone back now--but kept me here for a day or two. To watch Bickerdale--as I said. And last night, just as I was hoping to worm something out of Bickerdale and his son-in-law, that ratty little chap--Weech--in walks Mr. Parslewe!”

“And did--what?” I asked.

He smiled, enigmatically.

“Mr. Parslewe, sir, is an odd gentleman!” he answered. “You’ll know that by now, I think, Mr. Craye, though I understand you’re almost a stranger to him. Well--Mr. Parslewe, he lost no time. He told Bickerdale that he knew he’d found a document in a secret place in that copper box--he’d the copper box with him, and he showed us the trick of opening it.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” I interrupted, in surprise. “Found it out, eh?”

“He knew it, anyway,” replied Pawley. “It’s done by unscrewing the feet--the little knobs--that the thing stands on. And he demanded of Bickerdale that he should hand that document over there and then! Sharp!”

“And--what then?” I inquired.

Pawley poured out more tea, and stirred it thoughtfully.

“That was where I came in,” he said. “I objected--as representing Sir Charles Sperrigoe. I said he was the proper person to have any document, and I was his representative. We were disputing that, and Bickerdale was getting more obstinate about handing anything over to anybody till he knew what he was getting out of it, when you and those police chaps arrived. And the rest you know, Mr. Craye.”

“On the contrary,” said I, “I don’t! I don’t know anything. What happened between you and Mr. Parslewe in that kitchen?”

But at that he shook his head, and I saw that there were things he wouldn’t tell.

“As to that, Mr. Craye,” he answered, “Mr. Parslewe’s closed my lips! But he’s a gentleman of his word, and after what he said to me, I’d no choice, sir, no choice at all, but to fall in with his suggestion that the document should be handed over to him. I couldn’t do anything else--after what he told me. But as to what he told me--mum is the word, Mr. Craye!--mum! At present.”

“Have you any idea what that document is?” I asked, going at last straight to a principal point.

“None!” he replied quickly. “But--I’ve a very good idea!”

“What, then?” I put it to him. “I’d give a good deal to know.”

He glanced round, as if he feared to be overheard, though there was no one near us.

“Well,” he said. “Have you heard of an old gentleman named Palkeney, Mr. Matthew Palkeney, of Palkeney Manor, away there in the Midlands, who died some little time ago, leaving money and a fine place and no relatives, and from whose library that copper box and those books were undoubtedly stolen?”

“I’ve heard of him--and of the rest,” I replied.

“Just so,” he said. “Well, Mr. Craye, between you and me, it’s my belief that the document Mr. Parslewe got from Bickerdale last night--or, rather, early this morning--was neither more nor less than Mr. Matthew Palkeney’s will, which the old fellow--a queer old stick!--had hidden in that copper box! That’s what I think!”

“Is it known that he made any will?” I asked.

“In the ordinary way, no,” he answered. “But things come out. This would have come out before, but for the slowness of country folk to tell anything. Sperrigoes, as the old gentleman’s solicitors, have never been able to find any will, or trace of any. But recently--quite recently--they’ve come across this--a couple of men on the estate, one a woodman, the other a gamekeeper, have come forward to say that some time ago they set their names to a paper which they saw their old master sign his name to. What’s that but a will, Mr. Craye? Come!”

“It sounds like it,” I agreed. “And you think that it was that that Mr. Parslewe recovered last night?”

“I do,” he answered. “For I’ve heard--Sir Charles told me himself--that when the old man was struck down and lay dying, all he spoke of--as far as they could make out--was the copper box, coupled with the family name. Mr. Craye, I think he hid that will in the copper box, and that Mr. Parslewe now has it in his pocket!”

It seemed a probable suggestion, and I nodded my assent.

“I suppose we shall hear,” I said.

Pawley picked up his suit-case.

“I must go to my train,” he said. “Hear? Yes--and see, too, Mr. Craye! I think you’ll hear and see some queer things within this next day or two, if you’re remaining in Mr. Parslewe’s company. But, I’ll say this--Mr. Parslewe, though unmistakably a queer, a very queer, eccentric gentleman, is a straight ’un, and whatever he got from Bickerdale, it’s safe with him. Otherwise I shouldn’t be going south. And, as I say, if you’re stopping with Mr. Parslewe, I think you’ll have some entertainment. Better than a tale, I call it!”

He said good morning at that, and went off to his train, and after buying a morning newspaper, I turned into the hotel and went up to the private sitting-room. And then, presently, came Madrasia.

I was not going to say anything to Madrasia--I mean, as regarded the events of the night. Fortunately, she asked no questions--about the past, at any rate; her sole concern seemed to be about the immediate future. There was a waiter in the room, laying the table for breakfast, when she came in; she and I withdrew into the embrasure of the window, looking out on streets that had now grown busy.

“Have you seen him this morning?” she asked significantly. “No? Did you see him last night?”

“For a few minutes,” I answered.

“Did he say what we’re going to do to-day?” she inquired.

“Not a word!” said I. “Said nothing!”

“Not even whether we’re going home or not--or anything?” she demanded. “No? But what are we here for?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Ask him!”

“Might as well ask the man on that monument!” she retorted, pointing out of the window. “I feel like a marionette!--with Jimmie pulling the strings just as he pleases.”

“Do you mind?” I asked.

“Well, it does seem as if one hadn’t a mind or a will of one’s own,” she said. “Look here!--if he comes to breakfast with some new scheme, or plan, or mad notion, what are you going to do--yourself?”

I gave her a purposely steady look.

“Fall in with it,” I answered.

“You are!” she exclaimed. “Why?”

“Nothing else to do,” I replied.

She regarded me steadily for a while.

“I hope he hasn’t hypnotised us,” she said. “Seems to me he’s only got to lift a finger and we walk after him like lambs!”

“Rather amusing, though, after all,” I observed. “Adds variety to life. He may have something quite exciting in store for us to-day.”

“Oh, well,” she said. “If you like to be led about like a performing bear--however, here he is!”

Parslewe and breakfast came together. He had evidently been down to the bookstall to buy a financial paper, and he sat, grim and fixed of expression, as he ate and drank, and read figures and statistics. It was not until he had made an end of his food that he betrayed any particular consciousness of our presence. Then, laying down his paper, he bent across the table to his ward, favouring her with one of his charming smiles.

“Well, my dear,” he said, “did you buy all that you wanted yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes,” replied Madrasia, promptly, “I did.”

“Enough to last you till you get home?” he continued.

“Quite!” said Madrasia.

“You didn’t happen to buy a bag, or a case, or something to carry your impedimenta in?” he asked with a grin.

“Yes, I did,” retorted Madrasia. “Do you think I was going to carry a brown paper parcel back to Wooler? I bought a very nice bag.”

“Oh!” he said sweetly. “All right! Then you can just go and pack it, my girl, and be ready in three quarters of an hour, for we’re going.”

“Going where?” demanded Madrasia. “Home?”

“Not just yet,” he said. “We’re going south--by the express. A good way, too, and we must get seats in the luncheon car. So you be ready.”

Madrasia pointed a slim finger at me.

“You’ve never asked him!” she exclaimed.