The Copper Box/Chapter 6
VI
The Irrepressible Newsman
I WATCHED Sir Charles Sperrigoe drive off along the moorland road, and closing the turret door, went slowly and full of meditation up the stair to the parlour. Madrasia was standing where we had left her, on the hearth; she had the copper box in her hands and was examining it carefully. On my en trance she put it down on the table, and we looked at each other.
“Do you think he’ll come back?” she asked.
“I don’t know what he’ll do,” I answered, “but I think he and Pawley are pretty much of a muchness! If he’s master and Pawley’s man, then there’s not much to choose between man and master! Did you notice that he wouldn’t allow that he knew Pawley, whereas he knew well enough that he and Pawley met at Newcastle only day before yesterday? But I’ll tell you what happened downstairs.”
I gave her a full account of the brief interchange of remarks between Sir Charles and myself in the courtyard. She listened eagerly, and her eyes lit up.
“Ah!” she said. “I see what he meant! He meant that on your telling Jimmie of the doings at Newcastle, and that Sir Charles might be expected, Jimmie cleared out quick!”
“Well, didn’t he clear out?” said I.
She looked at me a moment in silence; then she nodded her head, as much as to assent to an undeniable proposition.
“I suppose he did!” she answered.
“Suppose? He did clear out!” I exclaimed. “Before morning! Why?”
“Didn’t want to meet this pompous old person,” she said. “That seems to be about it. Yes, I think Jimmie decidedly cleared out!”
“Leaving us to face this sort of thing,” I said. “If one only knew what it’s all about, what it means, why there’s this hue-and-cry after that box”
“I think the copper box is only a small part of it,” she interrupted. “It’s—a sort of handle, a clue, a—something!”
“Decidedly a something,” I assented. “Doubtless you observed that old White Whiskers very soon spotted it. That was all rot about the sideboard! He wasn’t looking at the sideboard at all; his eyes were glued on the copper box.”
“He’ll come back!” she exclaimed, suddenly. “I’m sure he’ll come back! And I’m wondering if, when he comes back, he’ll bring the police.”
“The police! What on earth makes you think that?” I asked. “Police? Come!”
“Didn’t you see Sir Charles Sperrigoe—whoever he may be—in conversation with our local police inspector last night?” she answered. “Obvious! The old person is in consultation with the police. Perhaps—don’t you see?—the box has been stolen.”
“You don’t imply that Mr. Parslewe stole it?” I suggested.
“Well, I have heard that antiquaries are not above appropriating things!” she answered with a laugh. “Their sense of mine and thine, I believe, is somewhat indefinite. But we’ll acquit Jimmie. Only, he may have bought it from somebody who stole it.”
“That’s more like it,” said I. “But in that case, why all this mystery? Why didn’t Pawley—who without doubt came after the box—say what he wanted? Why didn’t Sperrigoe?”
“Oh, Pawley came to see if the box was really here!” she declared. “Sperrigoe came to ask how it got here! That’s plain, to me. But what I want to know is, why such a fuss about it?”
“And what I want to know is, what made Parslewe vanish?” I said. “That’s much more of a mystery.”
“Didn’t you tell me that he seemed to know whom you meant when you described Sperrigoe as Sir Charles?” she asked. “Very well! Sir Charles is somebody whom Jimmie knew years ago. And Jimmie doesn’t want to meet him. Jimmie, as I have told you, is a queer man—an eccentric person. And I don’t think he’ll come home until Sir Charles Sperrigoe has gone away.”
“And I don’t think Sir Charles Sperrigoe will go away until he’s seen Parslewe,” said I. “So there we are!”
“Oh, well! does it matter very much?” she asked. “Aren’t we going out this fine morning? We’re doing no good here, staring at that wretched thing and speculating about it. Let’s be off!”
But before we could make any move, Tibbie Muir came into the room, looking very disapproving and sour of face, and presented Madrasia with another card. She became voluble.
“I’ve told him, and I’ve better told him, that the master’s not at home,” she declared, “but he’ll not take my word nor go away, and you must just deal with him yourself, Miss Madrasia. And if there’s going to be this coming and going at the door all day long”
Madrasia glanced at the card and passed it over to me. It was a printed card, and the lettering was meant to be impressive.
Mr. Augustus Weech.
Newcastle Evening Planet.
“Well?” demanded Madrasia.
“I think I should see this gentleman,” said I.
“Bring him up, Tibbie,” commanded Madrasia. “Perhaps he’ll be the last. What can he want?” she went on, turning to me as Tibbie grumblingly departed. “A reporter?”
“Newspaper chap of some sort, evidently,” I said. “And wanting news! But how does he come to know where to apply for news? And what news?”
“We’re only getting more and more fogbound,” she remarked. “Wait till we hear what he’s got to say; perhaps he has some news for us. He’s here!”
A sharp-eyed, alert, knowing-looking young person entered the room and made his bow. He was smartly dressed, evidently quite at his ease, and full of vitality. And his first proceeding was remarkable. As he straightened himself after doing obeisance to Madrasia his eyes fell on the copper box, and without preface he pointed a long, slender forefinger at it.
“That’s the identical article!” he exclaimed. “Sure!”
Then he looked round, saw me, grinned as if reassured by the sight of a fellow man, and turned again to Madrasia.
“Mr. Parslewe’s not at home, I understand, Miss,” he said, affably. “But you’re Miss Durham, ain’t you? I’ve heard of you. Now if I might sit down”
He had dropped into a chair at the side of the table before Madrasia had had time to invite him thereto; laying his hat by his side he ran his right hand through a rather abundant crop of fair hair—his action seemed to signify a preliminary to business.
“I recognized that as soon as I walked in!” he said, with another frank and almost childlike smile. “Queer business, ain’t it, about that old box?”
“I gather that you know something about it,” observed Madrasia.
“I do, Miss, that’s why I’m here,” he answered candidly. “Yes, I know something—so, too, I guess, does that young gentleman. I saw him t’other day—yesterday, to be exact—coming out of Bickerdale’s shop.”
“You did?” I exclaimed.
“I did! You came out as I was crossing over to it,” he answered. “You made old Bickerdale jolly waxy, too, some way or other. You see Bickerdale, he’s my father-in-law.”
Madrasia and I looked at each other. I think we both had the same thought—that our visitor looked very juvenile to be married.
“Oh!” I said. “Indeed?”
“Yes,” he continued. “Been that for the last three years—a man of a queer and dour temper is Bickerdale. You set his back up yesterday, Mr.—I don’t know your name?”
“My name is Craye,” I replied.
“Mr. Craye—all right. Well, Mr. Craye and Miss Durham—or vice versa, if I’m to be polite—it’s like this,” he proceeded gaily. “There’s a mystery about that copper box, isn’t there? I guess Mr. Parslewe knows there is—but your old woman says he’s away—queer old party, that old woman, isn’t she?—a character, I should think. But if Mr. Parslewe’s away, you ain’t! And I want to get at something—and to get at it, I don’t mind telling what I know. Between ourselves, of course.”
Madrasia and I exchanged another glance; then we both sat down, one on either side of our loquacious visitor.
“What do you know, Mr. Weech?” I asked, in my friendliest tone.
“Yes,” said Madrasia. “It would be so kind of you to tell us that!”
Mr. Weech smiled, drumming his fingers on the crown of his hat.
“Well!” he said, graciously, “I’ll tell you! Of course, I came to tell Mr. Parslewe—but you’ll do. And no doubt you’ll be able to tell me something. Well, me first, then. As I said, I’m Bickerdale’s son-in-law. I married his third daughter, Melissa—she’s all right. Naturally, being in the relation I am to Bickerdale, I’m a good deal in and out of his place—go there Sundays, with the wife and kid. Now, not so very long ago, I was there one Sunday, and happening to go into his workshop for a smoke—my mother-in-law having a decided objection to tobacco in the parlour—I set eyes on that article—that very copper box! I was a a bit taken with the engraved coat-of-arms and the queer motto underneath, and I asked Bickerdale where he’d got it. He told me that Mr. Parslewe of Kelpieshaw had brought it to him to be repaired—it had got slightly damaged by a fall, and needed a coppersmith’s attention. We talked a bit about it. Bickerdale said it had been made—beaten copper, you know—at least a hundred years, and was a very pretty bit of work. It had got a bulge in one side, and Bickerdale had to straighten it out—very delicate and gentle business. But he did it, and either Mr. Parslewe fetched it away, or it was sent to him. Anyhow, there it is!—that’s the box!”
Mr. Weech gave the copper box a tap with his finger-nail as if to evoke a confirmation of his words, and proceeded.
“Now, a bit—can’t say now how long exactly—after the box had come back here, I was up at Bickerdale’s one Sunday, and after dinner Bickerdale took me into his office. ‘I say!’ he says, when we were alone. ‘You remember that copper box that I was repairing, that you admired?—of course you do! Well, look here, there was some goods came the other day in an old copy of The Times,’ he says, ‘and my eye just happened to fall on this, on the front page,’ and he pulled out an old Times and pointed to an advertisement that he’d marked, in the personal column. I read it, and I gaped at it! This,” continued Mr. Weech, suddenly producing a folded newspaper from an inner pocket, “this is not the identical copy of The Times that Bickerdale had; this is another copy of the same issue—I got it, as a back number, for myself. Now, Miss Durham and Mr. Craye, you read that! and you’ll be getting at a very good notion of what it is that I want to get out of Mr. Parslewe! There, marked with red ink.”
He laid the newspaper on the table before us, and we bent over it, reading with feelings which—so far as I was concerned—rapidly became mixed.
“£250 Reward. To Auctioneers, Antiquarian and Second-hand Booksellers, Buyers of Rare Books, etc.: Missing, and Probably Stolen, from a well-known Private Library, the following Scarce Works. 1. Hubbard’s Present State of New England, 1677; 2. Brandt’s Ship of Fooles, 1570; 3. Burton’s Anatomy, 1621; 4.Whole Works of Samuel Daniel, Esquire, in Poetrie, 1623; 5. Drayton’s Polyolbion, 1622; 6. Higden’s Polycronicon, 1527; 7. Florio’s Montaigne, 1603. Each of these copies, all extremely scarce, contains a book-plate of which the following is a full description. [Here followed a technical account, heraldic in detail.] Also Missing, and probably stolen at the same time, an Antique Box, of Beaten Copper, on the front of which is engraved the coat-of-arms and legend particularised in the foregoing description. It is probable that these properties will be offered to well-known collectors, here or abroad. The book-plates may have been removed. The above mentioned reward of £250 will be paid to any person giving information which will lead to their recovery. Such information should be given to the undersigned.
“Sperrigoe, Chillingley, and Watson,
“Solicitors.
“3 , Friars’ Pavement,
Medminster.”
I took matters into my own hands on reading this. First nudging Madrasia’s elbow to give her warning that I was about to do something requiring delicacy and diplomacy, I turned to Mr. Weech.
“That’s very interesting,” said I. “And—curious! Er—perhaps you’d like a little refreshment, Mr. Weech, after your journey? A whisky-and-soda, now?”
“Well, thank you,” he answered, readily, with a glance at the sideboard. “It wouldn’t come amiss, Mr. Craye; I hired a push-bicycle at Wooler, but, my word! it wasn’t half a job shoving the old thing over your roads—some part of the way, at any rate! Cruel!”
I gave him a good stiff mixture and put a box of biscuits at the side of his glass. Then I got Madrasia’s attention once more, and, holding The Times in my hand, turned to the door.
“Just excuse Miss Durham and myself for a few minutes, Mr. Weech,” I said. “We’ll not keep you long.”
Outside the parlour, and with its door safely shut on our visitor, I looked at Madrasia, who, in her turn, looked inquiringly at me.
“Come up to the library!” I whispered. “Those books!”
“Yes!” she answered. “I thought of that!”
We stole up the stair, for all the world as if we were going to commit some nefarious deed, and into the room wherein Parslewe kept his various and many treasures. Within five minutes we had satisfied ourselves, and stood looking questioningly at each other. We had reason; the books specified in the advertisement were all there! Every one of them!—book-plates and all.
“What next?” muttered Madrasia at last. “Of course, we musn’t tell him!”
She nodded at the floor, indicating the spot beneath which Mr. Weech was sipping his drink and nibbling biscuits.
“Tell him nothing!” said I. “But, let him tell us! Come down!”
We went down again; Mr. Weech looked very comfortable.
“We should like to hear more of your very interesting story, Mr. Weech,” I said. “You got to the point where Bickerdale showed you this advertisement. What happened after that?”
“Why, this,” he answered, evidently more ready to talk than ever. “Bickerdale and I consulted. He was all for writing to these lawyers at once, denouncing Mr. Parslewe as the thief. I said, metaphorically, you know—that he was an ass; it was much more likely that Mr. Parslewe had been taken in by the real and actual thief. I advised seeing Mr. Parslewe. But Bickerdale, he wrote, unbeknown to me, to these lawyers, saying that he was sure he’d had this copper box in his hands, and that where it was, probably the books would be. And those lawyers sent a man—a private detective—down to investigate”
“Name of Pawley, eh?” I suggested.
“Never heard it, but I shouldn’t wonder if it was,” he answered. “I only heard of him. Anyway, he came—and his principal followed him—a big, pompous man, who was at Bickerdale’s yesterday. And that’s where Bickerdale and I quarrelled, see?”
“Not quite,” I replied. “How, and why, did you quarrel?”
“Because Bickerdale, for some queer reason or other, suddenly shut his mouth after that fat old party had been, and wouldn’t give me one scrap of information,” answered Mr. Weech, with a highly injured air. “Dead silence on his part, eh? Flat refusal! That was after I saw you leaving him. Ab-so-lute-ly refused to tell me one word about what was going on! Me! his son-in-law, and more than, for that’s where the shoe pinches, a pressman!”
“Ah!” I exclaimed, seeing light at last. “I see! You want to make what they call a story of it?”
“What else?” he answered, with a knowing wink. “What d’ye suppose I’m here for? I don’t believe Mr. Parslewe—I’ve heard of him, many a time—stole that blessed box—not I! But there’s romance, and mystery, and what not about the whole thing, and I want to work it up and make a live column, or a couple of ’em, out of it, and so I came to the fountainhead, and Mr. Parslewe’s away, worse luck. Now, can you tell me anything?”
We got rid of Mr. Weech by promising him faithfully that on Mr. Parslewe’s return we would tell him all that had transpired, and would entreat him to favour our visitor with his exclusive confidence, and after another whisky-and-soda, during his consumption of which he told us confidentially that he meant to Ride High, he went away, leaving us more mystified than ever.
And we were still more mystified when, during the course of that afternoon, a telegraph boy came all the way over the moors from Wooler, bringing me a message. It was, of course, from Parslewe, and, as Madrasia at once remarked, just like him.
Both of you meet me Newcastle Central Station noon to-morrow.