Part 3
We settled the affair of the picture over that tea-table. I decided to start on it at once, and the first thing then was to get a suitable canvas. Parslewe said I should be sure to find one in Newcastle, and I arranged to journey there next day, seek out an artist’s colourman, and buy what I wanted. On this errand I was in Newcastle about noon on the following morning, and the first person I saw there was our recent visitor, the somewhat mysterious Mr. Pawley.
Mr. Pawley did not see me. I caught sight of him by accident, but, having seen him, I made it my business to watch him a little. He stood at the exit of one of the arrival platforms, and he was absorbed in looking for somebody or other. An express came in from the south; its passengers began to stream through the exit; presently Mr. Pawley--who was still attired as when I had last seen him--removed his cap and bowed with sincere obsequiousness. The object of his reverence was an elderly, big-framed, very consequential-looking man, whose large face was ornamented by a pair of old-fashioned whiskers, and who, in my opinion, had family solicitor written big all over himself and his attire, from his silk hat to his stout-soled, gaitered, square-toed boots. That he was a person of much greater importance than Mr. Pawley was very evident from the fact that he replied to Mr. Pawley’s obsequious greeting with a mere condescending nod, and at once resigned into his hands a Gladstone bag and a travelling rug. There was an interchange of brief remarks between the two--then they marched across the platform to the hotel and vanished within its portals, the large man going first, and Mr. Pawley playing porter behind.
My curiosity had been aroused so keenly by that time that I had some absurd notion of following Pawley and the white-whiskered person into the hotel, just to see if I could find out a little more about their mutual relation. But on reflection I went off about my own business. Having some knowledge of Newcastle, I walked up town to a certain restaurant of which I knew and highly approved; there I lunched and idled an hour away afterwards. After that I set out in quest of a firm whose name Parslewe had given me. Its manager had not got a canvas of the precise size I wanted, but he promised to make me one by noon of the following day, and I accordingly decided to stay in Newcastle for the night, and, later, went to the hotel at the station to book a room. In the smoking-room there, writing letters, was the white-whiskered person. Pawley was not with him. Nor was Pawley with him when, after dinner that evening, he came into the smoking-room again and took a chair close by my own in a comfortable corner. But now he was not alone; he came in company with a younger man, a middle-aged, sharp-eyed individual whom I also set down as having some connection with the law.
These two men had evidently just dined; a waiter brought them coffee and liqueurs; the elder man produced a cigar-case and offered it to his companion. They began to talk; sometimes quite audibly, at others, sinking their voices to whisperings. But they had scarcely lighted their cigars before a word or two from the white-whiskered man made me prick my ears.
“Without doubt!” he said. “Without any doubt, the copper box--its presence there--the coat-of-arms--the odd legend on the scroll--is a most valuable piece of evidence! As soon as I heard of it----”
He bent nearer to his companion, and for a minute or two I failed to catch what he was saying. Out of my eye-corners, however, I could see that the younger man was listening, attentively and approvingly; from time to time he nodded his head as if in assent. Eventually he spoke.
“And you say that Pawley, in his opinion, took him to be of about that age?” he asked.
“That, of course, has to be considered.”
“Pawley is an observant fellow,” remarked the elder man. “I have employed Pawley on several occasions, and with excellent results. I can trust Pawley’s estimate of the age. It fits in exactly!”
The younger man regarded his cigar thoughtfully for a while.
“Odd!” he said at last. “Very odd! But I should say it is so!”
“I don’t think there’s any doubt of it,” answered the white-whiskered person. “At any rate, I am not going to travel all this way, and back again, without making sure. I shall not be deceived!” he added with strong emphasis on the personal pronoun, accompanied by a complacent chuckle. “Even a point-blank denial would not satisfy me! No dust will be thrown in my eyes!”
“You were fully acquainted with the circumstances of thirty years ago?” questioned the other. “Personally, I mean?”
“Fully! Thirty-five years ago, to be exact. He--if it is so--is now fifty-six years of age. Oh, yes, I knew everything, was concerned in everything,” affirmed the elder man.
“Up to a certain point, you know, up to a certain point. Now, if I can only get at close quarters, and Pawley assures me that’s by no means difficult, I can satisfy myself rather cleverly. For instance----”
Once more he leaned nearer to his companion and lowered his voice; the conversation tailed off into whisperings. And now, fearful lest I should in any way betray myself, I rose from my chair, left their neighbourhood, and under pretence of looking at the evening newspapers spread out on a centre table, went across to another part of the room. I picked up a paper and sat down, affecting to look at it. But in reality, I was still watching the two men, and wondering what it was that they were talking about.
For without doubt it had to do with my host, Parslewe. The references to the copper box, to the coat-of-arms engraved on it, to the curiously worded motto appearing on the scroll beneath, all that meant Parslewe. Pawley, again; whom had Pawley been visiting but Parslewe? And Pawley’s estimate, so much valued by White Whiskers, that was, of course, in relation to the age of Parslewe. It was all Parslewe, and it didn’t require much thought or reflection or analysis on my part to decide that about and around Parslewe hung a decided mystery.
But of what nature? It seemed to me, judging him by my short yet very intimate acquaintanceship, that Parslewe was a decidedly frank and candid man. He had told me a good deal about himself. He had left England as a very young man, gone East, settled down in Madras, gone into partnership there with another Englishman, Madrasia’s father, trading in cotton and indigo, made a big fortune, and, on the death of his partner and his partner’s wife, had brought Madrasia to England, to settle down as I had found them. All that seemed a plain and straight story, with nothing remarkable or mysterious about it. What, then, were these men after? For there was no doubt in my mind now that Pawley had come to Kelpieshaw as a spy, seeking some particular information, and evidently getting what he wanted in an inspection of Parslewe and an examination of the copper box.
That copper box began to assume a sinister significance in my thoughts of it and its relation to this affair. But what was its relation? It was a box, and it was made of copper. Beautifully made, to be sure, and by some man who had taken vast artistic pride in his work; the engraving of the coat-of-arms, too, was beautifully done. But, after all, it was only a copper box! What was there about it, then, or appertaining to it, that made these men, if not exactly keen about it, at any rate remarkably interested in the mere fact of its existence?
I saw no more of the two men in the smoking-room that night, except that I caught a glimpse of White Whiskers, as I had come to call him, going bedward at the same time as myself, and on my corridor. I saw him again next morning, in the coffee-room, at breakfast; he looked bigger, more solemn and judicial than ever. But no Pawley came to him; I wondered what had become of Pawley. Perhaps he had gone back to sneak round Kelpieshaw again--anyway, I myself was going back there as soon as my canvas was ready. And I had already made up my mind that when I got there I should tell Parslewe that at Newcastle there were people talking about him and his copper box.
The man who was making my canvas had his shop in a side street off Haymarket; I set off to it a little before noon, intending to get my parcel, return to the station, and depart for Wooler. But half-way up Percy Street I suddenly saw White Whiskers, a little way in front of me. With him was the man with whom I had seen him in conversation the night before. Once more they were in conversation; it seemed to be earnest and intense, judging by their attitude; White Whiskers had his arm linked in that of his companion, to whom he bent, confidently; the other listened with rapt attention. Out of sheer curiosity I followed them. They turned, eventually, into St. Thomas Street, and then began to look at the names over the shops. Finally, White Whiskers raised his umbrella and pointed to a sign; a moment later they entered the shop beneath it. And from a little distance I saw what was on the sign: BICKERDALE, WHITESMITH AND COPPERSMITH.
Copper again! copper box, coppersmith--the whole thing was becoming more mysterious than ever! Here were these men, who had been talking about a copper box the night before, now entering the shop of a man who worked in copper. Why? I wanted to know. And instead of going off on my own proper business to the artist’s colourman’s shop, I crossed the street, walked on a little, turned, and kept an eye on the door into which White Whiskers and his companion had vanished.
They were in there about half-an-hour. I stuck to my post, though I knew I was running the risk of losing my train. At last they came out. They came nodding and wagging their heads as if whatever had transpired within had settled the question--White Whiskers, in particular, looked uncommonly satisfied with himself. They went away, round the corner into the Haymarket--and thereupon, with a desperate resolution generated by sheer curiosity, I boldly entered the coppersmith’s establishment. Its proprietor, an uncomfortably canny-looking sort of person, elderly and spectacled, stood behind the counter; his keen eyes fell upon me at once with such shrewd inquiry that I felt decidedly embarrassed, and knew myself to be growing red about cheeks and ears.
“Oh, ah, er,” I began lamely. “I--that is--have you any old articles in copper, you know--curiosities and that sort of thing--to sell?”
It seemed to me that he took an unconscionable time in replying. When he did reply, it was with a curt monosyllable.
“No!”
“The fact is I--sometimes--go in for collecting such things,” I said. “I----”
He suddenly bent forward across his counter, and gave me a keen, searching look.
“What are you after, young man?” he asked severely. “I saw you--watching those gentlemen.”
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 poking 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 afternoon. 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. I 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 way-worn!” 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.