Part 9

“Ah! that’s a question that a lot of people have put to me, sir,” he replied. “You’d almost think they manufacture things! But the fact is, sir, this is an old part of England, with a lot of old houses about, old country seats, and the like. And families die out, and the stuff they’ve been accumulating for generations comes to auction, and a lot of it gets into these curio shops--that’s how it’s done, sir. Plenty of antiques in those shops, sir, but nothing to what there is in the old houses in the neighbourhood.”

“Do you know a house near here called Palkeney Manor?” I asked, thinking that as this was an intelligent and communicative man I might as well improve my own knowledge. “There is such a place, I think?”

“Palkeney Manor, sir!” he answered readily. “To be sure, sir! Three miles out--fine old house that is--sort of show-place; you can look round it by paying a shilling--all our American customers go there, and the shillings go to the local charities. Oh, yes! that was old Mr. Matthew Palkeney’s. Dead now, he is, and they do say that the lawyers don’t know who the property belongs to--haven’t found out yet, anyway. Fine property it is, too. Queer old gentleman, old Mr. Palkeney!--and that reminds me that I think your friend knew him, sir. Leastways, the last day your friend was here I remember that old Mr. Palkeney drove up in his carriage and gave me a parcel for him--I helped him to pack that parcel in one of the cases I’d bought for him.”

“You’ve an excellent memory,” I remarked.

“Oh, well, one thinks of things, sir,” he answered. “Faces, now, sir, they stir your memory up, don’t you think? And I’ve seen some remarkable faces in my time--faces that you’d remember twenty years after. Some faces, of course, is that ordinary that you never notice ’em. But others----”

At that moment Parslewe put his face through the swing door behind us, and seeing the hall-porter on the steps came out. He had a letter in his hand. Coming to the hall-porter he waved the letter towards the west end of the Market Place.

“Isn’t Sir Charles Sperrigoe’s office just round that corner?” he asked. “Aye? Well, just go and put this note into his letter-box, will you? Then he’ll get it first thing in the morning. Go now, there’s a good fellow!” He turned to me when the man had gone on his errand. “Well, master!” he asked, in his half-cynical, half-humorous fashion. “How does this appeal to your artistic sense?”

“A fine setting for a mystery, Mr. Parslewe,” I answered.

“I dare say you’re right,” he said with a laugh. “But I think we shall have done with mysteries to-morrow, my lad. And what mystery there is has been none of my making! Well, I’m off to my bed. Good night.”

With that, and a pleasant nod, he went unconcernedly off, and presently I followed his example, more mystified than ever by his last remark. For if he had not made all this mystery, who had?

Whether the mystery was going to be done with next day or not, its atmosphere was still thick upon us next morning. At ten o’clock, Parslewe, who invariably made all his arrangements without consulting anybody who was affected by them, marshalled us into a carriage and pair at the door of the Crown and gave some instructions, aside, to the coachman. We drove off into a singularly picturesque and well-wooded country. Madrasia, fresh from the almost treeless slopes of the Cheviots, was immediately in raptures with it. Already the trees were in leaf, the wide-spreading meadows were covered with fresh green, and in the vistas of woodland through which we passed daffodils and wood anemones made splashes of colour against the bursting verdure. New to her, too, were the quaint thatched cottages, many of them half-timbered, and all ancient, by the roadside.

“It’s like the old England that one sees in pictures!” she exclaimed. “It’s as if we’d gone back!”

“We have gone back,” said Parslewe, with one of his queer, grim looks. “Back to Elizabeth! There’s not much that’s altered hereabouts since Shakespeare’s time--neither houses nor men. And if you’re going to develop a taste for mediævalism, my dear, you’ll soon be satisfied--we’re presently going to set foot in a house that’s as old as they make ’em.”

But before this came about the carriage stopped at a wayside cottage, and Parslewe, without a word to us, got out, knocked at the door, and went in. He remained inside for several minutes; when he emerged again it was in the company of a tall, weather-beaten old man whom, because of his velveteen coat and general appearance, I took to be a gamekeeper. Motioning to the coachman to follow him up the road, Parslewe walked on ahead with his companion, and presently turned into a wayside wood. Coming abreast of the bridle-gate by which they had entered, we saw them in conversation with a third man, also elderly, who was felling trees; for some minutes the three stood talking together.

“What is he after now?” asked Madrasia.

I shook my head--nothing was going to draw me into speculations about Parslewe’s proceedings.

“The best thing at the present juncture,” said I, as oracularly as possible, “is just to let things occur. I don’t know what he’s after! Let him pursue it! We shall find things out as we go on.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I imagine--but I may be wrong--that we’re on our way to that Palkeney Manor of which Murthwaite told us,” said I. “I think we’ve been on our way to it ever since we left Newcastle yesterday morning. That’s probably the house that’s as old as they make ’em. You’d better be prepared--for anything. I am!”

“What do you mean?” she demanded. “You’re getting cryptic too!”

“I think my brains are addled!” I answered. “Never mind! I know something!”

“What?” she asked.

I bent forward to her, endeavouring to look as mysterious as I possibly could, and spoke in a hushed voice.

“This!” I said, thrillingly. “Parslewe has the copper box in his pocket!”

She drew back, staring at me as if she wondered whether my mind had given way. I nodded solemnly.

“Fact!” said I. “I saw him put it there! It’s in the right-hand outer pocket of his coat. And in the copper box lies the explanation of--everything! Hush!--not a word! He’s coming back.”

Parslewe came back, leaving the two old men talking together, and I noticed that they stared after his retreating figure with vast interest. But instead of getting into the carriage again, he motioned to us, in his usual imperious fashion, to get out. Then he turned to the coachman.

“Isn’t there an inn along the road there, near the village?” he asked. “Just so; then you go and put up your horses at it, and wait there till I send for you. We’ll do the rest on foot,” he went on, turning to us. “There’s a path through the woods a little farther on.”

He led us up the road for another hundred yards, then turned into a bridle-track that wound through a mass of venerable old trees for a good half-mile. We made slow progress, for Madrasia insisted on gathering a bunch of primroses. She was putting the last finishing touches to this when Parslewe, who had got a little ahead, called to us.

“Now then, here you are!” he said. “Here’s the place!”

We went on, and found him at the edge of the wood, leaning over a gate. He pointed before him with his stick.

“Palkeney Manor,” he remarked, drily.

Madrasia let out a sudden, whole-souled exclamation of delighted wonder. I was not surprised; the scene before us was one of that peculiar charm and quiet beauty which no other country than our own can show. We were looking on an undulating park, vividly green, studded with old trees beneath which antlered deer were browsing; there was a tree-shaded stretch of water in one of the miniature valleys, and cattle standing knee-deep in it, and above this, on a rising ground, backed by tall elms and giant chestnuts, stood a beautiful old house, mellowed by centuries of age.

We were all intent for a time, staring. Then Madrasia spoke, softly.

“What a picture of a place!” she said. “Jimmie! even you must think it is!”

But Parslewe gave us one of his queer looks.

“Um!” he answered. “To tell you the truth, my girl, I was wondering if the drains are all right! Picturesqueness is all very well--but, however, we’ll go a bit nearer.”

We went slowly across the park, admiring its sylvan beauties, past the shining water, past the shy deer, and up to the front of the house, Madrasia’s ecstasies of admiration increasing with every step we took. And as for myself, I was beginning to have a great wonder and an itching curiosity--especially the itching curiosity. What were we doing here?

But Parslewe seemed to know. He led us straight to the front door, which stood open.

“This is a show-place on certain days in the week,” he said. “This is one of those days, so we can go in.”

We went in. An elderly woman appeared. She wore a black silk apron, and a thin gold chain round her neck; I took these to be symbolic of her rank and estate as housekeeper. And I noticed that after a first glance at him, she gave Parslewe a steady, knowing inspection.

“Good morning to you, ma’am,” said Parslewe, with his best old-fashioned politeness. “I understand we may look round?”

The housekeeper explained. The state rooms, including those once used by Queen Elizabeth, and the bed in which her Majesty had slept, were open to inspection. Visitors paid a shilling each; the shillings were given to the local charities. So Parslewe paid three shillings, and we all inscribed our names in a book--Parslewe last. And as he laid down the pen under the housekeeper’s eye, he turned and looked at her.

“Now, ma’am!” he said. “Have you ever seen me before?”

The woman gave him a quiet, watchful look.

“Yes, sir,” she answered readily. “I remember you. You’re the gentleman who dined here with my late master some three years ago, and spent the evening with him. But I never heard your name, sir.”

Parslewe nodded, and remarking that there was no need to show us round, he’d prefer to be left to himself, led us into the hall and up a great staircase to the state apartments. It was evident at once that he knew the whole place, and for the next hour he was in his element as guide while we were lost in wonder and admiration at the things he showed us. And we were examining the very bed on which Queen Elizabeth had stretched her limbs when the housekeeper came in, more interested in Parslewe than ever.

“Sir,” she said, with something of deference. “Sir Charles Sperrigoe’s compliments, and he awaits your pleasure in the morning-room.”

XII

_The Palkeney Motto_

It was characteristic of Parslewe that he deliberately finished what he was telling us about Queen Elizabeth and her visit to Palkeney before he made any move in the direction of Sir Charles Sperrigoe. I am afraid we only heard a half of what he said; we were both conscious that what we might hear downstairs was certain to prove of far greater interest than anything Parslewe could tell us about the sixteenth century. Personally, I felt a throb of excitement when at last he turned away from the queer old chamber in which we stood.

“Well, come on!” he said, “I suppose we must see this chap and clear things up. Didn’t she say the morning-room?”

He seemed to know where that was well enough, and led the way straight to it; its door was slightly open, and as Parslewe threw it wide we became aware of Sir Charles, posted on the hearth, his large face turned expectantly towards us. Its expression was severe, pompous, and non-committal, but it changed with startling rapidity as his eyes fell on Parslewe. He almost jumped, indeed--moved, recovered himself, gasped.

“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “My dear sir, surely we have met before?”

Parslewe laughed sardonically.

“Aye, surely!” he answered, in his most casual fashion. “Neither of us difficult to recognise, I should think, Sir Charles. And I understand you’ve met these young people before, too?”

Sir Charles hastened to acknowledge us--perfunctorily; it was evident that we were very unimportant factors in the situation compared to Parslewe, upon whom his eyes were fastened with strange interest.

“I have had that pleasure,” he said. “But you, my dear sir--we met, one night, some--is it two, or is it three years ago?--at the Crown, in our neighbouring town, where, I believe, you are now staying? I remember our conversation--instructive and--and enjoyable. Dear me! But I never knew your name.”

“I knew yours,” said Parslewe, with a grin. “That’s just why I wouldn’t see you when you came to my house.”

Sir Charles stared--this was beyond him. He looked from one to the other of us; finally at Parslewe. There was that in his expression which made me think that he was wondering if Parslewe might not be a little mad.

“But why, my good sir?” he asked soothingly. “Why? Am I so----”

Parslewe laughed and pointed to the panelling over the big fireplace. There, carved in oak, was the Palkeney coat-of-arms, and beneath it the motto that had excited my wonder when I first saw it on the copper box.

“Do you see that?” he asked. “Aye?--well, you see, I have the Palkeney blood in my veins! And what I please to do, that I do!--without caring for or consulting anybody. Family characteristic, Sperrigoe! But I guess you’ve seen it before, eh?”

Sir Charles was still staring at him. He looked like a man who has unexpectedly got hold of some curious animal and is uncertain what it is about to do next. But after rubbing his chin a little, he spoke.

“Do I understand you to say that you have the Palkeney blood in your veins?” he inquired. “Then----”

Parslewe suddenly pointed to the table which stood in the centre of the room, signing us all to be seated at it; I noticed that he himself took the chair at its head as with an unchallengeable authority.

“Better sit down and do our business,” he said. Then, as we settled round the table, Madrasia and I on his right and left hand, and Sir Charles opposite to him, he put a hand in his coat pocket, drew out the copper box, and with one of his queer smiles, set it before him. “Do you know what that is, Sperrigoe?” he asked.

Sir Charles made a wry face.

“The cause of much worry and anxiety to me, my dear sir!” he answered. “I can see what it is well enough!”

“Aye, and you want to know how I got it, don’t you?” suggested Parslewe. “So do these young people. I’ll tell you. Old Matthew Palkeney made me a present of it.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Sir Charles. “You were acquainted with him?”

“Don’t I tell you I’ve got Palkeney blood in my veins?” said Parslewe. “My great-grandmother was a Palkeney--born in this house. I have the Palkeney pedigree, and the Parslewe pedigree--at your service, any time. And when I came to the Crown, on the occasion you’ve just mentioned, it was just out of curiosity to see this place. I introduced myself to old Matthew. I’d brought my pedigree with me; we compared notes and family documents, and enjoyed ourselves. I dined here with him one night, and we went thoroughly into family history.”

“He was convinced of your relationship?” asked Sir Charles.

“He couldn’t be anything else,” said Parslewe, drily. “The thing’s there--it’s fact. But we didn’t dwell overmuch on that, once it was settled. We were more concerned with our mutual taste for old things. And the next day the old man drove up to the Crown, when I was out, and left for me a parcel. It contained this copper box, which has been in the family for I don’t know how long, and some six or seven old books which I had admired--a nice present. I wrote him a nice letter in return, and carried my present home. Not knowing, mind you,” added Parslewe, with a sudden keen look, “what this box contained.”

Sir Charles was getting keenly attentive. He looked like a man who has become sure that something is going to be sprung on him.

“My dear sir!” he said. “What did it contain?”

Parslewe picked up the copper box and tapped it significantly.

“I never knew that it contained anything until some thirty-six hours ago!” he answered. “I never should have known if you fellows hadn’t made such a fuss about it. But when you did--when I found out from Craye here that you yourself were on the prowl, there in Northumberland, and after me--well, I naturally began to put two and two together. And it seemed to me that the secret lay with that man Bickerdale, to whom I’d entrusted the copper box for repair, and who’d had it in his hands long enough to find out about it more than I had. It struck me that Bickerdale, not content with what he’d got out of you for telling where the box was, had discovered something in it which he was holding back in hopes of a further and more substantial reward. So I just went to Newcastle and started to find that out. I did find it out--and though I’m not clear now as to when Bickerdale found a certain document in the box, I did find out that he’d not only found one, but had got it! And in Craye’s presence and in the presence of your man Pawley, to whom I’d just given a certain piece of confidential information--I forced it out of Bickerdale. I’ve got it! And it solves the question that’s been bothering you.”

Sir Charles was getting more and more impatient; his plump white fingers were drumming on the table. And as Parslewe finished, he voiced his impatience in a quick, direct question.

“What is this document?”

Parslewe smiled, and turned the copper box over, so that the four rounded feet at its corners stood uppermost.

“I’ll show it to you now,” he said. “And I’ll show you where old Matthew Palkeney had hidden it, probably intending before he died to tell you, Sperrigoe, where it was hidden. Now look here; there’s a false bottom to this box. You unscrew these knobs so, one after the other. When they’re unscrewed, like that, you lift this plate; there’s a thin cavity between it and the inner floor of the box. And here’s the document. I put it back in the box so that you could see for yourself where it had been concealed.”

He tossed over the table the envelope which I had seen him take from Bickerdale. The solicitor picked it up eagerly. He drew out the sheet of letter paper which lay within, and his sharp, shrewd eyes had read whatever was written there in a few seconds. He gave a gasp; his big face flushed; he looked across at Parslewe.

“Good God, my dear sir!” he exclaimed. “Do--do you know what this--what this--this most important document--is?”

“I do!” replied Parslewe, drily. “But these two don’t.”

Sir Charles turned to us. I think he found some relief for his astonished feelings in having somebody to announce something to.

“This--this is a will!” he said, in almost awestruck accents. “The will of my late client, Mr. Matthew Palkeney! Made by himself on a single sheet of notepaper! But in strict order, duly executed and attested. I know the witnesses----”

“So do I,” observed Parslewe, with a laugh. “Talked to both of ’em this morning on the way here.”

“And--and, in short, it is what it is!” continued Sir Charles. “Nothing can upset it! And in it, in as few words as ever he could use, Mr. Matthew Palkeney leaves everything of which he dies possessed to--Mr. Parslewe! Wonderful!”

Parslewe thrust his hands in his pockets.

“I don’t see anything very wonderful about it,” he remarked, coldly. “We were of the same blood! The old man evidently wanted to--and he did. But he never consulted me, you know, Sperrigoe.”

“All the more pleasant surprise for you, my dear sir!” exclaimed Sir Charles. A new mood appeared to have come over him; after re-reading the will more attentively, he rubbed his hands, chuckled, beamed on all three of us, and seemed to have had a great weight lifted off his mind. “My hearty congratulations, sir!” he went on, with an almost reverential inclination of his head across the table. “A very, very handsome property you have come into by this, Mr. Parslewe! One of the most beautiful old houses in England, a charming, if small estate, and--yes, I should say, as a good estimate, some five or six thousand a year! Delightful!”

But Parslewe, leaning back in his chair, with his hands thrust in his breeches pockets, had set those thin lips of his. He looked over the table at Sir Charles as if he were never going to speak. But he spoke.

“Aye!” he said, in his driest, hardest tones. “Just so! Maybe! But you see, I don’t want it. And I won’t have it!”

A dead silence fell on us. Madrasia turned wonderingly towards her guardian. I was already watching him. As for Sir Charles Sperrigoe, he flushed crimson--as if somebody had struck him an insulting blow. He leaned forward.

“You--my dear sir, I am, I fear, inclining to deafness,” he said. “Did I understand you to say----”

“I said I don’t want it, and I won’t have it!” repeated Parslewe, loudly. “I should have told old Matthew that if he’d ever asked me about it. I’m a man of fixed and immutable principle. When I went out to India as a young man, I made a vow that I’d never own or take anything in this life that I didn’t earn by my own effort, and I’ll stick to it! I don’t want the Palkeney estate, nor the Palkeney house, nor the Palkeney money--I’ve plenty of money of my own, more than I know what to do with, and a house that suits me better than this does. If you want to know me, look again at that motto! What I please, that I’ll do! And I won’t have this--that’s flat!”

Sir Charles’s astonished face regained its normal colour, and he suddenly laughed with genuine amusement.

“Dear, dear!” he said. “There is no doubt, my dear sir, of your Palkeney blood--the Palkeneys were always eccentric. But--you’re forgetting something; a very pertinent something. This place is yours! Yours! Everything’s yours! I think I should put my--rather rash and hasty--vow in my pocket, my dear sir!”

Parslewe’s lips became tight again. But they presently relaxed, and he bent forward to the table again, and began to smile.

“If this place and the whole thing is mine, absolutely and entirely,” he said in honeyed accent, “I reckon I can do just what I like with it, what?”

“There’s no man can say you nay!” answered Sir Charles. “It’s--yours!”