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 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.
“That’s all right,” replied Parslewe, calmly. “He’s going too. We’re all going. You go and pack your duds.” He turned to me as she went out of the room and his smile was sweeter than ever. “You may as well see it through, Craye,” he said. “I think we’ll have about settled things up by noon to-morrow. And I’ll show you something that’ll appeal to your artistic eye. Eh?”
“In for a penny, in for a pound, Mr. Parslewe,” I replied. “I’m game!—but hanged if I know what it’s all about!”
“I’m not so certain that I know that myself, my lad!” he answered. “But I think we’re getting near it. Well, be ready!”
He went off then, and I saw him no more until we all met to walk across to the express. There was considerable satisfaction in travelling with Parslewe, for he reduced the whole thing to the perfection of comfort. He had already booked three places and a table in the first-class dining-car, armed himself with a heap of magazines and newspapers, and, as he said, we had nothing to do but drop on our padded seats, put our toes under the table, and go away in luxurious idleness. We went—but when that train moved out of Newcastle and started on its long journey southward, neither Madrasia nor myself bad the faintest idea as to where we were going. I think it was much to our credit—especially to hers—that we made no inquiry, and allowed Parslewe to do just as he liked with us. Certainly I had some vague, shadowy idea as to our destination; probably it was Palkeney Manor, or to some place where somebody—Sperrigoe, perhaps—lived who had some connection with it. But then—I did not know where Palkeney Manor was; Pawley, to be sure, had referred to it as being in the Midlands, but the Midlands are wide-stretching.
Anyway, we remained in that express until, after we had had lunch, it ran into Peterborough. There Parslewe, without notice, bundled us out. He treated us to one of his sardonic grins when he had shepherded us on to the platform.
“This is where we begin to travel,” he remarked, drily. “That was a preliminary—no bother about that—all straight running. But now”
He broke off abruptly, and left us; presently we saw him in close conversation with an official. Madrasia turned to me.
“Of course, you haven’t the least idea where we’re going,” she suggested.
“If you mean, do I know exactly and precisely, no!” I answered. “If you mean, do I know to within fifty or a hundred miles, yes!”
“Well?” she demanded.
“I think we’re going into one of the Midland counties,” I said, resignedly. “There are several of them. I remember sufficient geography to repeat their names if you want to hear them.”
“I don’t!” she answered. “But I wish we were there, wherever it is. Where are we now? I mean, in relation to where we’re going?”
“A long way off,” I replied, consolingly. “That’s what he means when he says we’re about to travel. The fact is, we’ve so far been on a straight line; now, I suppose, we’ve got to cut across country. We’re in the east, and we’ve got to go west.”
There was a clock over our heads, and Madrasia looked at it. We were half-way through the afternoon.
“I suppose we shall land somewhere about midnight,” she said. “But it’s just what I expected.”
She was wrong. We travelled a long way, to be sure, after leaving Peterborough, and I knew, by passing such places as Rugby and Warwick, that we were making into the heart of mid-England. But at eight o’clock, and at a small station, Parslewe had us out of our carriage and into a cab; within a few minutes we were in the quaint old streets of what looked like a mediaeval town. And even then we did not know its name; all we knew was that he had ordered our driver to carry us to the Crown. Presently we were there, and saw an old-world hostelry, out of which came a very modern hall-porter, who, at sight of Parslewe, smiled widely and touched his forehead.
“Glad to see you again, sir!” said this functionary. “Rooms, sir?”
Parslewe looked at the man with a quizzical, inquiring glance.
“So you remember me, do you?” he asked. “Eh?”
“Never forget a face, sir,” replied the hall-porter. “This way, sir!”