V
Sir Charles Sperrigoe
I STOOD silently watching Madrasia as she broke open her letter, drew out the scrap of paper inside (Parslewe, as I had already noticed, was an absolute miser in his use of stationery, and made any stray fragment serve his immediate purpose), and read whatever was there written. The slight pucker of astonishment between her eyebrows deepened to a frown, and with a gesture that was not exactly definable she tossed the paper across to me.
“What on earth does that mean?” she exclaimed. “And where is he?”
I glanced at this second communication; it was comprised in one line—
“Be a good girl and do as you’re told.”
“Do as you’re told!” she added. “Good heavens!—who’s to do the telling?”
I silently handed her my letter; she looked more astonished than ever when she read it.
“What does it all mean?” she asked. “Has—but he evidently has gone away. In consequence of something you told him, too! What? But wait!”
She rang a small hand-bell that stood on the corner of the breakfast-table; before its sharp tinkling had died away the old woman came hurrying in.
“Tibbie!” said Madrasia. “Has Mr. Parslewe gone away? When?”
“He went off at five o’clock this morning, Miss,” replied Tibbie. “He just tapped of me and said he’d be away a day or two, likely, and that was all. I looked out of the window when he’d gone, and I saw him riding off on his pony.”
“Which way?” demanded Madrasia.
“Across the moor, Miss,” answered Tibbie. “Roddam way.”
Madrasia hesitated a moment, nodded, and turning to the table began to pour out the coffee; the old woman withdrew. And as a beginning of my wardership, I turned my attention to the hot dishes.
“Fish or bacon?” I inquired.
“Hang the fish—and the bacon!” retorted Madrasia. “Well, fish, then. What is all this mystery? What did you tell him last night?”
“This morning, rather,” said I. “Early this morning. Well, I was to tell you. He said you’d enjoy it. Better than any fiction! But what it’s all about, I don’t know. I wish I did! Perhaps you do.”
“I may do, when you tell me,” she answered. “Go on!”
Between mouthfuls I told her the whole story of my adventures, from the moment of recognising Pawley to finding Parslewe’s note on my plate. At the first mention of the copper box she turned and gazed at that mysterious article, reposing in its usual place on the sideboard; when I made an end of my narrative she stared at it again.
“Just so!” I said. “I wish it could speak. But—it can’t. And what I want to know is precisely what you want to know—what is it all about? A first-class mystery, this, anyway! Pawley comes, and is seen examining the copper box. I go to Newcastle, and see Pawley meet a fat-faced, white-whiskered old party. I hear this person talk of the copper box to another man, who turns out to be a solicitor. I have a passage-at-arms with a coppersmith, who, I feel sure, has seen and known the copper box—I have other passages. I come home and tell Parslewe—and Parslewe flees in the night, leaving me in charge of”
“Thank you, but he’d far better have left you in charge of me!” she said. “And don’t you forget it—while he’s away, I’m boss!—never mind what he said—and you’ve got to be as good and obedient as they make ’em! I countermand his order, so you’re deposed—by me! But—I’m thinking.”
“What about?” I inquired meekly.
She pointed her fork at the sideboard.
“The copper box!” she answered. “What else?”
I helped myself to more bacon, and ate for a while in silent meditation.
“Perhaps it’s bewitched!” I observed at last. “Sort of Arabian Nights’ business, you know.”
“Don’t be silly!” she commanded. “The more I think of it, the more I’m sure this is, or may be, a very serious affair. Now to begin with, the copper box wasn’t always where it is, nor in this house at all.”
“No?” I said, inquiringly.
She remained silent a moment or two, evidently reflecting. Then she turned to me with an air of confidence.
“As Jimmie put me under your charge,” she said ingratiatingly, “I”
“You told me just now that his orders were countermanded, and that you were boss,” said I.
“Oh, well! You know what I mean!” she answered. “Anyway, as he said you were to tell me all about this extraordinary adventure, I suppose there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be equally straightforward with you. It seems to me that we’re at a pass where frankness is advisable.”
“Absolutely necessary, I should think,” said I.
“Very well,” she went on. “I remember the copper box coming here.”
“You do?” I exclaimed. “Ah!”
“Jimmie,” she continued, “to give him the name by which I’ve called him ever since I was that high, is an eccentric person—very! Much more eccentric than you’ve any idea of. He has fits—not in the medical or pathological sense, but fits all the same. They take various forms. One form is that of going off, all of a sudden, by himself—the Lord knows where!”
“As in the present instance,” I suggested.
“To be sure! This,” she said, “is by no means the first time Tibbie and I have been suddenly bereft of his presence. He departs! and no more’s heard or seen of him until a reappearance as unexpected as his disappearance. And usually—indeed, I suppose always—when he returns he brings things with him.”
“The thing is obvious,” I remarked. “He’s been hunting for curiosities.”
“Perhaps! But why in such secrecy?”
“Part of the game. The more secrecy, the more pleasure. Human nature—antiquarian human nature.”
“Well, about twelve or fifteen months ago he was away like that,” she said. “I don’t know where he’d been, he never tells. But when he returned the copper box was with him. He polished it up the night he came home. Of course, I admired it, equally, of course, I asked him where he’d got it. All he said was what he always does say, he’d just picked it up. Off the street, no doubt, or on the moor, or in an omnibus, or on a train! But that’s Jimmie. And on the same occasion he brought back some half-dozen old books—very old, apparently rare books—about which I noticed a certain thing, though I never said a word to him about it—no good!”
“What was the certain thing?”
“The books are upstairs in his library; you may have seen them. In each there’s a book-plate with a coat-of-arms, and a legend exactly like those on the copper box.”
“I’ve seen the books. I saw the coat-of-arms, too,” said I. “Odd! And—significant.”
“Why significant?”
“Looks as if they’d all come from the same source. And he didn’t tell you anything as to where he got these things?”
“He never tells anybody anything as to where he gets things—never! He just brings them in and puts them down, somewhere—and that’s all. However, the copper box disappeared for a while—not so very long ago. I noticed that, and he vouchsafed to tell me that he’d taken it to be repaired by a man in Newcastle.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed. “Now I see some light! That man was Bickerdale, the coppersmith. Of course.”
“I’d thought of that already—thought of it as soon as you told me of the Bickerdale episode. But—what then?”
“Um! That’s a very big question,” I answered. “What, then, indeed! But I think somebody is very much concerned about that copper box—why, only heaven knows. This fatuous, white-whiskered old person, for instance. And that reminds me—he’ll turn up here this morning, sure as fate. What are we to say to him?”
“Why say more than that the master is away?” she asked.
“That won’t satisfy him,” said I. “He’s a pertinacious old party. And he’s Sir Charles Somebody-or-other, and he’ll resent being treated as if he were a footman leaving cards. Let me suggest something.”
“Well—what?” she asked dubiously. We’ve got to be careful.”
“We’ll be careful enough,” said I. “Let’s do this. If the old chap comes—and come he will—let Tibbie bring him up here. We’ll receive him in state; you’ll, of course, play the part, your proper part, of chatelaine; I, of guest. You’ll regret that Mr. Parslewe is away from home—indefinitely—and we’ll both be warily careful to tell the old man nothing. But we’ll watch him. I particularly want to see if looks for, sees, and seems to recognise the copper box. Pawley will have told him where it’s kept—on that sideboard; now let’s see if his eyes turn to it. He’ll come!—and before long.”
“Good!” she agreed. “Now, suppose he gets cross-examining us?”
“Fence with him—tell him nothing,” I answered. “Our part is—Mr. Parslewe is away.”
We finished breakfast; the table was cleared; we waited, chatting. And before long a loud knocking was heard at the door of the turret. Tibbie Muir, already instructed, went down to respond to it. Presently we heard ponderous footsteps on the winding stair. Tibbie looked in; behind her loomed a large, fur-collar-coated bulk.
“There’s a gentleman calls himself Sir Charles—Sir Charles” began Tibbie.
The bulk came forward, hat in hand.
“Allow me, my good woman,” it said unctuously. It looked round in the subdued light of the old coloured-glass windows, and seeing a lady, bowed itself. “Sir Charles Sperrigoe!” it announced. “Ahem! to call on Mr. Parslewe, Mr. James Parslewe.”
“Mr. Parslewe is not at home,” replied Madrasia. “He is away—on business.”
Sir Charles showed his disappointment. But he glanced keenly at Madrasia and bowed again, more politely than ever.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I have the honour of seeing Miss Parslewe?”
“No,” answered Madrasia. “My name is Durham. I am Mr. Parslewe’s ward.”
Sir Charles looked at me. I was purposely keeping myself in the shadowy part of the old room; it was darkish there, and I saw that he did not recognise me, though he had certainly set eyes on me at Newcastle and at Wooler.
“This young gentleman,” he suggested. “Mr. Parslewe’s son, perhaps?”
“No!” said Madrasia. “A visitor.”
Sir Charles looked sorry and discomfited. He fidgeted a little, nervously.
“Will you sit down, Sir Charles?” asked Madrasia.
He sat down. He took a chair between the centre table and the sideboard. He looked at Madrasia with interest—and, I thought, with decided admiration.
“Thank you!” he said. “I—ah, deeply regret Mr. Parslewe’s absence. I have heard of Mr. Parslewe—as a distinguished antiquary.”
“Oh!” said Madrasia. “Distinguished?”
“Distinguished!” cooed Sir Charles. “Distinguished!”
“Odd!” remarked Madrasia. “I thought he was only a dabbler. That’s what he considers himself to be, I’m sure.”
Sir Charles waved a fat, white hand.
“Prophets, my dear young lady, are said to have no honour in their own country,” he observed with a knowing smile. “And your truly learned man usually considers himself to be a novice. What says one of my favourite poets?
“‘Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much;
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.’
—Just so—precisely!”
“You are fond of poetry, Sir Charles?” suggested Madrasia.
“Eminently so! And of antiquities,” assented our caller. “And being in the neighbourhood, and hearing of Mr. Parslewe, I did myself the honour of waiting upon him in the hope of being able to pay him my respects, and to”
“Just so!” broke in Madrasia. “So very kind of you! I don’t think we were quite aware that my guardian’s fame as an antiquary had spread, but he appears to be getting celebrated. You are the second person who has called to see him, on the same errand, within the last few days. The other,” she continued, “was a gentleman named—er—Pawley. Mr. Pawley.”
“Ah!” said Sir Charles. “Indeed!—I am not acquainted with many antiquaries; I am something of a recluse. And, perhaps, Mr.—ah—Crawley—oh, Pawley?—was fortunate enough to find Mr. Parslewe at home and to enjoy the benefit—just so, just so! And I—am unfortunate.”
“Mr. Parslewe went away this morning,” remarked Madrasia, in matter-of-fact tones. “He may return to-morrow; he mayn’t. He mayn’t return for a week; he may. He’s uncertain. But I’ll certainly tell him you’ve called, Sir Charles.”
“Thank you, thank you!” said Sir Charles. “Much regret—and I don’t know how long I shall remain in these parts. Delightful, romantic situation—most romantic! You have been here long?”
“Ever since we came from India,” replied Madrasia, forgetting our compact. “Some few years ago.”
“Ah, Mr. Parslewe came from India, did he?” asked Sir Charles eagerly. “But you?—you were surely not born under those burning skies?”
“I was!” answered Madrasia, with a laugh.
“Of English parents, of course,” suggested Sir Charles. “Of course!—the English rose!—ah, the English rose! No one, Miss Durham, could mistake you for anything else than that!”
I coughed—discreetly. And Madrasia took the hint.
“I’m sorry Mr. Parslewe is not at home,” she began. “Can I give him any message?”
Sir Charles drew out a card case, and laid a card on the table. Then he rose, and we both saw his eyes turn to the copper box. He gave it a good, straight glance.
“Thank you, thank you!” he answered. “My card, and my compliments and regrets, and perhaps I may do myself the pleasure of waiting upon him again, if he returns soon. I should much like to see his—ah—collections.”
Madrasia picked up the card.
“And you are staying, Sir Charles?” she asked.
“For a day or two at the hotel at Wooler,” he replied. “After that, perhaps, for a few days in Berwick. The address at Wooler will find me, at any rate, during my stay in these parts; letters would be forwarded.”
He was still looking at the copper box, and presently he became mendacious.
“What a truly beautiful old sideboard!” he remarked, going nearer to that article of furniture. “Mr. Parslewe is, I see, a connoisseur in Chippendale work.”
He went nearer to the sideboard, but we both saw that he was not looking at it at all; he was staring at the coat-of-arms on the copper box.
“Delightful pursuit, collecting,” he said, straightening himself. “Well, I must run away. Pleasure must not be put before business, and I have a car waiting, and business at the other end of a drive.”
He shook hands with Madrasia with—I thought—unnecessary cordiality. Madrasia turned to me.
“Perhaps you’ll see Sir Charles safely down the stair?” she suggested. “It’s rather dangerous if you don’t know it.”
I preceded Sir Charles down the stair and opened the door at its foot. It had been shadowy in the room, and more so on the stair, but there was a full glare of spring sunlight on us as we emerged into the courtyard, and now, seeing me clearly for the first time, the old gentleman let out a sudden sharp exclamation.
“Hallo, young man!” he said, staring at me, while his face flushed under the surprise of his recognition. “I’ve seen you before! Last night, at the hotel in Wooler. And—and—somewhere before that!”
“In Newcastle, no doubt,” said I. “I saw you there two or three times.”
He stopped dead in the middle of the courtyard, still staring.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “The girl up there said—a visitor!”
His bland manner and suave tone had gone now, and he was almost hectoring in his attitude. I looked at him wonderingly.
“Miss Durham described me as what I am,” I answered. “A visitor!”
“Parslewe’s visitor?” he asked.
“Mr. Parslewe’s visitor—certainly,” said I. “His guest.”
“How long have you known Parslewe?” he inquired.
But his manner was getting somewhat too much for my patience.
“Really!” I began. “I fail to see why”
He suddenly tapped me on the chest with a strange sort of familiarity.
“Look you here, young man!” he said. “You say you saw me in Newcastle. With anybody?”
“Yes!” I answered, somewhat nettled. “I saw you with the man who called himself Pawley.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “And you saw me last night at Wooler, with the police inspector. Did you come here and tell that—and the Pawley incident—to Parslewe? Come now!”
“I did!” said I. “Why not?”
Without another word he strode off to his car, motioned to its driver, and went away.