IV
Midnight Warning
I GLANCED round, involuntarily, at the window of the man’s shop, and saw that, there being little in it, he would certainly have been able, while talking to White Whiskers and his companion, to command a view of the other side of the street, and so had doubtless seen me hanging about. But his curt manner helped to disperse my embarrassment and awkwardness, and I boldly took another line. After all, I had—as far as I knew—as good a right to ask questions as White Whiskers had.
“Well, supposing I was watching them?” I retorted. “I may have had a good reason, and very good reason! What do you say to that?”
He began to shift about the things on his counter, aimlessly. I remained watching him. Suddenly he looked up, nervously, but defiantly.
“You’re not going to get anything out of me!” he said. “I’ve said my say already, and I’ve been warned against such as you.” Then he assumed a sneering look and tone. “Old copper articles!” he flung at me. “You should think shame of yourself coming in on a man with false excuses like that!”
I saw now that there was something, and I gave him a thrust that was intended to go right home.
“Copper is a good word!” said I. “And I wonder if you’ve ever seen or handled an old copper box, a few inches square, with a coat-of-arms engraved on it, and an unusual motto beneath that? Come, now!”
He stood straight up at that, and I knew that he had seen such a thing, and that the two men who had just gone had been at him about it. And having made this discovery, and without another word, I turned on my heel and went swiftly out of the shop, leaving him staring after me.
But if he was bewildered, so was I. What on earth was all this mystery, plainly centring round Parslewe and his copper box? I had walked up the street, turned a corner, and gone far down another street before I remembered my canvas and my train. I turned back, got the canvas, and made for the hotel and the station. And of course, through pok ing my nose into other people’s affairs, I had missed the train to Alnwick and Wooler, and there wasn’t another until late in the after noon. So I lunched in the hotel, and idled the time away there—chiefly wondering about this thing. Parslewe—Pawley—White Whiskers—the coppersmith—and that infernal copper box in the middle of them! What was the mystery attached to them and it? Was it fraud?—was it some matter of felony?—was it murder? I was going to tell Parslewe what I had discovered, anyway, and as quickly as possible. But I had to cool my heels until between five and six o’clock, and when at last I walked out on the platform to my train I saw White Whiskers standing at the door of a first-class carriage talking to the man who had gone with him to the coppersmith’s shop. White Whiskers had his bag and his rug in the carriage; I glimpsed them as I passed—evidently, he was going northward by my train, and was, of course, on his way to Kelpieshaw.
I had one of the hotel porters with me, carrying my bag and my canvas, and when he had found me a seat I engaged his attention.
“There are two gentlemen standing at the door of a first-class compartment up there,” I said. “Do you happen to know who they are?”
The man looked, and nodded.
“Don’t know the older gentleman, sir,” he replied. “He stopped at the hotel last night, but I didn’t hear his name mentioned. The other gentleman’s Mr. Pebling, sir.”
“And who,” I asked, “is Mr. Pebling?”
“Lawyer, sir—well-known lawyer in the town,” he answered. “Pebling, Spilsby and Pebling, solicitors—Grey Street. Everybody knows him.”
Accordingly, I departed for Kelpieshaw in an atmosphere of Law and Mystery—I imagined that atmosphere centring thickly around White Whiskers in his first-class compartment (I, as a matter of principle rather than pence, travelled third) and mingling with the smoke of his very excellent cigars. I would have given a good deal to pick the brains that lay behind his big, solemn, consequential countenance, but I knew that I should probably hear much on the morrow. For that he was bound for Kelpieshaw I had no more doubt than that our train was a slow one.
It was late when we got to Wooler—so late that I had already decided to spend the night there and go on to Parslewe’s in the early morning. I had some notion, too, that White Whiskers would, of course, repair to the principal hotel, whither I was also bound, and that there I might find out a little more about him—perhaps even get into conversation with him; from what I had seen of him at Newcastle, I judged him to be a talkative man, and at Wooler he would have small chance of indulging his propensities. Now if I could only foregather with him over a smoking-room fire
But no sooner had the train come to a halt in Wooler station than I saw that White Whiskers was expected, and was met. He was met, and very politely—almost reverently—received by a tall military-looking man in a smart, dark uniform, braided and buttoned, who appeared to consider it an honour when White Whiskers—as I saw plainly—extended two fingers to him. They conversed for a minute or two; then, talking confidentially, as it appeared, they set off together. And being just behind them as they left the station, I indulged in more inquisitiveness.
“Who is that in the dark uniform?” I inquired of the clerk who was collecting the tickets at the entrance.
“Mr. Hilgrave,” he answered, promptly. “Inspector of police. Nice gentleman!—not been here so very long, though.”
I went on to the hotel, wondering what on earth White Whiskers wanted with the local police inspector. And upon getting into the hotel, I found them together. White Whiskers was just beginning a belated dinner in the coffee-room; Hilgrave sat with him, refreshing himself with a whisky-and-soda, and listening with apparent deep interest to his talk. I got some warmed-up dinner myself, but I did not overhear anything that was said between the two. The conversation seemed to be chiefly one-sided; White Whiskers evidently explaining and detailing, and the police inspector nodding his comprehension. But towards the close of this episode I got some information. White Whiskers, bringing his dinner to an end, summoned the waiter and gave him some audible commands. He must be called, with hot water and tea, at seven o’clock in the morning. Breakfast must be ready for him at precisely eight—sharp to the minute. And at nine o’clock the best car in the place must be at the door to take him to Kelpieshaw. How far away was this Kelpieshaw?—nine or ten miles by the road? Very good!—then nine o’clock, precisely.
These things settled, White Whiskers turned to Hilgrave, bland and affable.
“Well,” he said, now speaking in quite audible accents, the occasion for secrecy having evidently passed, “what do you say to a cigar?—I suppose there’s a smoking-room here?”
“Very kind of you, Sir Charles,” replied the inspector. “Smoking-room just across the hall.”
When they had gone away, I thought things over—rapidly. It was then close upon ten o’clock, and I already knew sufficient of the domestic habits of Kelpieshaw as to know that they kept early hours there. But I felt, more from instinct than anything, that Parslewe ought to be put in possession of my news, and that I ought not to leave the imparting of it until next morning, however early. So going out into the hall, I got hold of the boots, and, taking him aside, made inquiries about my chances of getting a car, late as it was. He got one for me—with considerable delay and difficulty—but I took good care not to let him nor its driver know where I was going until I had got clear of the hotel.
The last stage of the road to Kelpieshaw was of such a nature that a car could do no more than crawl over it, and it was nearly midnight when I saw the tower of the old house standing dark and spectral against a moonlit sky. As I expected, there was not a light to be seen in any of the windows, not even in those of the upper part of the tower wherein Parslewe had his library. I felt very lonely when the car had driven off, leaving me in the solitude of the wind-swept courtyard. knocked on the turret door several times without getting any response, and knowing the thickness of the walls and doors as I did, I began to fear that no summons of mine would be heard, and that I should have to camp out in one of the buildings. But my knocking roused the dogs; they set up a great barking, and at that a window opened, and Tibbie Muir’s voice, wrathful enough, demanded to know what ill body was below.
“Don’t be angry, Tibbie,” I called. “It’s I, Mr. Craye. Tell your master I’m back, and let me in.”
It was Parslewe himself who presently came down. He seemed in no way surprised, and he treated me to one of his sardonic grins.
“Well, young master?” he said, holding up his lamp and giving me a careful inspection as I stepped within. “You look a bit wayworn!” Then, in his eccentric, jocular fashion, and as he bolted and locked the big door behind me, he began to spout, dramatically:—
“‘Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless.
So dull, so dead, so woe-begone.
Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night.
And would have told him half his Troy was burn’d!’
“But go up, Craye, my lad, and we’ll see if a drop of whisky’ll revive you!”
He laughed again and pushed me up the stair; I went, willingly.
“Mr. Parslewe!” said I. “I’m neither dull, nor dead, nor woe-begone, but I am cold, for the night’s bitter, and that miserable old car I got is a trap for draughts. And as to Priam and Troy, I’ve a tale to tell you that beats that!”
“Aye?” he said. “Well, a midnight tale is generally one that’s worth hearing. And if you’re cold, I believe there’s a bit of fire burning, and we’ll soon improve it. But”
We were at the head of the stair by then, and Madrasia suddenly called from her room.
“Jimmie!—is that him?” she demanded, careless of grammar in her eagerness. “And what’s he after at this time?”
“Aye, it’s me!” I called out, catching at her spirit. “And I’m safe and sound, too, with a pack of adventures”
“That’ll keep till morning,” interrupted Parslewe, pushing me into the room. “Go to sleep again, my girl!” He shut the door on us, drew the heavy curtain across it, and after poking up the fire and lighting the lamp, helped us both to whisky from the decanter and lighted his pipe. “Aye, and what’s the tale, Craye?” he asked.
I had been considering the telling of that all the way from Wooler—debating the best way of putting the various episodes before him. It seemed to me that the best fashion was one of consecutive narrative, leaving him to draw his own inferences and conclusions. So I began at the beginning, which was, of course, at the point where I first saw Pawley awaiting the arrival of the train from the south. I watched him carefully as I told the story, being anxious to see how it struck him and how things that had impressed me impressed him. And as I went on from one stage to another I was conscious of a curious, half-humorous, half-cynical imperturbability about him; his face remained mask-like, except for a sly gleam in his expressive eyes, and he never betrayed any sign of being surprised or startled but once, when his lips moved a little at the first mention of the copper box. And twice he smiled and nodded his head slightly—the first time was when I mentioned the coppersmith’s shop, whereat he stirred a bit and said softly, “Aye, that would be old Bickerdale!” and the second when I said that the police inspector had addressed White Whiskers as Sir Charles. He laughed outright at that.
“Aye, likely enough,” he muttered. “He’s the sort that would turn out Sir Charles, for sure! But I hadn’t heard of it.”
“That’s the lot, Mr. Parslewe,” I concluded. “I left Sir Charles and the police inspector smoking their cigars and drinking their whisky. I saw them through the open door of the smoking-room, and they were hobnobbing comfortably enough. And then I raced through the night—to tell you!”
“Aye!” he said. “But to tell me—what?”
“What I have told you,” I replied.
He gave me a queer, questioning look.
“Sounds very mysterious, my lad, eh!” he said.
“To me—uncommonly so!” said I.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and then took a pull at his glass.
“You’ve no doubt amused yourself with theories about it?” he suggested.
“No!” I retorted. “It’s too deep for theories, Mr. Parslewe. Too deep for me to theorise about, I mean.”
“Aye—well, we’ll say speculate, then, instead of theorise,” he remarked, drily. “You’ve indulged in speculations?”
I pointed towards the sideboard behind him.
“I’ve certainly been wondering what on earth that copper box has to do with it!” said I. “Here’s a fat, solemn, self-important old buffer travels—possibly all the way from London—to talk about a copper box in a Newcastle hotel! A Newcastle shopkeeper starts with surprise when I mention a copper box to him! And there—with the firelight glinting on it—there is the copper box!”
“Aye!” he said. “Aye, there it is—and there it’ll remain, master!” He closed his lips in a tight, firm fashion that I had already come to know very well, in spite of our brief acquaintance, and when he relaxed them again it was to smile in his sweetest fashion. “But that doesn’t explain anything, Craye, does it?” he remarked.
“Explains nothing—to me,” I assented.
He got up, threw two or three small logs of wood on the fire, and standing with his back to it, thrust his hands in the pockets of his dressing-gown. He puffed at his big pipe for a while, staring across the shadowy corners of the room, and suddenly he laughed.
“You can tell all that to Madrasia in the morning,” he said. “It’ll amuse her.”
“Mystify her, you mean!” I said.
“Well, both, then—they come to the same thing,” he answered. “Please her, too; she thought—being a woman, and having feminine intuition—that Master Pawley was—well, something of what he seems to be.”
“Then you think Pawley came here of set purpose—design?” I asked.
“Maybe!” he answered, coolly. “Didn’t strike me at the time. I took the fellow for being what he professed to be—though I certainly wasn’t impressed by his antiquarian knowledge. But then, the man described himself as a neophyte, a novice. Well, he was—very much so!”
“My opinion is that Pawley was a spy!” said I.
It was a direct challenge to him to let me into his mind. But as soon as I had thrown it down, I saw that he was not going to take it up. There was that about his attitude which showed me that he was not going to say one word in elucidation of the mystery—then, at any rate. But just then I remembered something.
“I forgot this!” said I—“It didn’t seem of much moment at the time—but it’s this: when Pawley was here, you left him and me together, here, in this room, while you went upstairs to write down some notes or memoranda for him. During your absence he picked up the copper box, and after some remarks on its workmanship asked me if I knew whose coat-of-arms that was, and some other questions about it. He was—suspiciously interested.”
“How do you mean—suspiciously?” he asked.
“It struck me—perhaps afterwards—that Pawley could have answered the question himself,” I replied. “Although he asked me, he knew—already.”
“Then the gentleman knew a bit more about heraldry than he did about sepulchral barrows!” he remarked with a sardonic laugh. “Well, tell that, too, to Madrasia in the morning—she likes mysteries in fiction and here’s one in real life. Finish your whisky, my lad, and let’s go to bed.”
I knew then that it was hopeless to get any explanation from Parslewe. I knew, too, that he could tell me a lot, if he wanted. But after all it was no concern of mine and I rose.
“I got the canvas I wanted,” I told him, as we were leaving the room. “That’s all right.”
“Then you can make a start on your picture,” he answered. “Good night, master!”
He grinned knowingly at me as we shook hands at the door of my room; then he moved off to his own. His door closed. The queer old house became silent.
I slept like a top the remainder of that night—so soundly, indeed, that it was late when I awoke. I had to hurry over my shaving and dressing, but after all, I was first in the parlour. A cheery fire burned in the hearth; the table was laid for breakfast, and on my plate I saw an envelope; another lay before Madrasia’s. I snatched mine up, recognised Parslewe’s crabbed writing, and broke the seal—to stare and wonder at what he had written on a half-sheet of paper within.
- “Dear Craye,” ran his note, “you’re a good fellow and dependable. Just take good care of the girl until you either hear from or see me again. What you told me early this morning inclines me to believe that I’d better attend to a possibly urgent affair, at once.—Vale!— J. P ”
I had scarcely read and comprehended this truly remarkable message when Madrasia ran into the room. She was singing—some old country song. It came to a dead stop as she saw me pointing to the envelope that lay by her plate.