The Copper Box/Chapter 7

E discussed that telegram during the greater part of the next few hours, arguing out its meanings and significances; we became no wiser in the process, but it seemed hopeless to endeavour to settle down to anything else. Madrasia, I think, got some relief in making the necessary arrangements for our departure in the morning; I think, too, that she was further relieved at the prospect of meeting her eccentric guardian and getting—or attempting to get—some explanation of these curious proceedings. For that they were curious, to the last degree, was beyond question. My own rapid review of them, taking in everything from the first coming of Pawley to the visit of Mr. Augustus Weech, only served to convince me that we were becoming hopelessly entangled in a series of problems and theories about which it was as useless as it was impossible to speculate.

But there was more to come before the afternoon closed. First of all came another wire from Parslewe. It was short and peremptory, like the first, but it was more illuminating, and, in some queer way, it cheered us up.

Madrasia clapped her hands.

“That’s better!” she exclaimed. “That’s lots better! It means that he’s clearing things up, or he’s going to. For heaven’s sake, don’t let’s forget the copper box! Which of us is most to be depended upon for remembering?”

“I, of course,” said I, “being a man.”

“We’ll debate that on some other occasion,” she retorted. “As a woman—Lord! what’s that?”

Old Tibbie was just entering with the tea-tray; as she opened the door, a loud, insistent knocking came on the iron-studded panels at the foot of the stair. Tibbie groaned and almost dropped her tray, and Madrasia turned appealingly to me.

“We’re all getting nervous,” she said. “Will you run down?”

I went down the stair, opened the great door, and found myself confronting a fresh-coloured, pleasant-faced man who had just dismounted from a serviceable but handsome cob and stood in the courtyard with its bridle over his arm. He smiled at sight of me.

“Mr. Craye, I’m sure?” he said. “I’ve heard of you. Staying here with Mr. Parslewe. Now, is Mr. Parslewe in? I mean, has he returned?”

“No!” I answered, bluntly enough.

He looked at me with a glance that was at once understanding and confidential; there was, I thought, something very like the suspicion of a wink in his eye.

“The fact of the case is, I’m his solicitor,” he remarked. “And”

But just then Madrasia came flying down the stairs, and greeted the visitor so warmly that for the fraction of a second I really felt jealous.

“Mr. Murthwaite!” she cried, catching his readily extended hand and shaking it almost fervently. “Oh!—this is awfully good of you. We’re in an absolute muddle here—mentally, I mean—and now you’ll clear everything up for us! The sight of you is as good as sunshine after storm. Come in!—old Edie shall take your horse. This gentleman is Mr. Alvery Craye, a famous artist, and he’s nearly as much out of his wits as I am!”

“Then I find myself in queer and possibly dangerous company!” remarked Mr. Murthwaite, with another half wink at me. “However, I hope you’re sane enough to give me some tea, Miss Durham? Good!—then I’ll come in.” He handed his horse over to old Muir and followed Madrasia up the stair, I coming behind. His tone had been light and bantering up to then, but as soon as the three of us had reached the parlour and I had closed the door he turned to both with a quick, searching, earnest glance, and, unconsciously, I think, lowered his voice. “Now look here,” he said, in the tone of a man who wants a direct answer. “Do you young people, either of you, know where Parslewe is? What I really mean, though, is—is he in this house?”

“In this house!” exclaimed Madrasia. “Good heavens! Do you mean—hidden?”

“Why not?” answered Murthwaite. “I dare say one who knows it could hide in this old place for a month. But is he? Or anywhere about?”

Madrasia looked at me; I looked at the two telegrams which were lying on the table beyond the tea-tray.

“As Mr. Murthwaite is Mr. Parslewe’s solicitor,” said I, “I should show him those wires. They are the best answer to his question.”

“Yes!” agreed Madrasia. She snatched up the telegrams, and put them in Murthwaite’s hand; we both watched him intently while he read. “There!” she said, as he folded them again. “What do you think?”

“I think that Parslewe is a very strange man!” replied Murthwaite. “I think, too, that I must have a talk to you—both—about him. Now, as the tea is there, and you are so hospitable”

We gathered round the table, and Madrasia began to busy herself with the teapot and the cups. It was useless to attempt the talking of nothings; we were all full of the occasion of Murthwaite’s visit, and he was acute enough not to keep Madrasia and myself waiting for his news.

“I’ll tell you, briefly, what brought me here,” he said, after his first cup. “To-day, about noon, I had a visit from a Sir Charles Sperrigoe, who, after introducing himself as a fellow solicitor from a distant part of the country, told me that he had just ascertained in the town that I was solicitor to Mr. James Parslewe of Kelpieshaw; that he had been out to Kelpieshaw to find Mr. Parslewe, had failed to find him, and so had come to me. He then told me a very wonderful tale, which I am quite at liberty to tell you, and will tell to you presently. But first, I want to hear from Mr. Craye a story which I think he can tell about Newcastle. Sir Charles is under the impression that Mr. Craye told something to Mr. Parslewe last night which sent him off on his travels. I should like to hear that story, and then I’ll tell you what Sir Charles Sperrigoe told me, under persuasion.”

“I’d better tell you the plain facts about the whole affair, from the coming here of a man named Pawley until your own arrival just now,” said I. “You’ll then have the entire history of the matter before you, as far as I know it. It’s this”

He listened carefully, sipping his tea and munching his toast, while I told him everything. Now and then Madrasia corrected or prompted me a little; between us we gave him all the salient facts and details, down to the visit of Weech and the receipt of the last telegram; Madrasia had the last word.

“And then you came, Mr. Murthwaite! And if you can tell us what it all means, we’ll bless you!” she said. “Can you?”

But Murthwaite shook his head, decidedly.

“I can’t!” he answered. “Even now it’s as much a mystery to me as ever, though I think I see a little gleam of light—a very, very little one. No, I can only tell you what Sperrigoe told me this morning. If I may have another cup of your very excellent tea, and a cigarette with it”

He waited during a moment’s silent reflection, then, leaning back in his chair, and using his cigarette occasionally to point his remarks, he began to address us pretty much as if we constituted a jury.

“The firm of which Sir Charles Sperrigoe is senior partner,” he said, “has for many years acted as legal advisers to a very ancient family in the Midlands, the Palkeneys of Palkeney Manor, whose coat-of-arms you see on the now famous copper box on that sideboard, complete with its curious legend, or motto. The Palkeneys have been there at Palkeney ever since Tudor times—in fact, since the earliest Tudor times. A wealthy race, I understand, but one of those which have gradually dwindled. And to come down to quite recent times, a few years ago, an old gentleman who was believed to be the very last of the Palkeneys, Mr. Matthew Palkeney, was living at Palkeney Manor. He was a very old man, nearly ninety. Once, in his early days, he had had a younger brother, John Palkeney, but he, as a young man, had taken his portion, a younger son’s portion, gone away from the ancestral home, and never been heard of again—the last that was heard of him was from South America, sixty or seventy years ago, when he was starting into hitherto unexplored country, where, it was believed, he lost his life. And so, in his old age, Matthew Palkeney, as last of his race, was very lonely. And one day he was stricken down in his last illness, and for some hours Sperrigoe, the doctor, the housekeeper, the nurse, all gathered about his death-bed, were considerably disturbed and puzzled by the old man’s repetition of certain words. They were the only words he murmured after being struck down, and he said them over and over again before he died. I will tell you what they were. These—The copper box—a Palheney—a Palkeney—the copper box!”

He paused, with due appreciation of the dramatic effect, and looked at us. Madrasia gave a little shudder.

“Creepy!” she murmured.

“Very!” agreed Murthwaite. “Well, nobody knew what the old man meant, and it was useless to try to get him to give any explanation. But when he was dead, the old housekeeper, after much cudgelling of her brains, remembered that in a certain cabinet in a certain corner of the library there was a small box of beaten copper which she had seen Matthew Palkeney polish with his own hands in past years. She and Sperrigoe went to look for it; it was gone! Sperrigoe had the house searched from top to bottom for it; it was not in the house! That copper box had been stolen—and there it is, on Parslewe’s sideboard, here in Northumberland. That is—fact. Fact!”

He paused again, and we kept silence until it pleased him to go on.

“How did it get here?—or, rather, since nobody but Parslewe knows that, we can only deal with this—how did Sperrigoe find out that it was here? Mr. Craye has just told me one side of that, I can tell another. When Sperrigoe found that the copper box had been undoubtedly stolen, he had a thorough examination made of the contents of the library and checked by a printed catalogue kept there—for the library is famous. Then he found that several rare and valuable old books had disappeared with the copper box. Then he advertised. You know the rest. Parslewe had taken the copper box to Bickerdale; Bickerdale saw Sperrigoe’s advertisement—and so on. And now, when Pawley, as Sperrigoe’s advance agent, and then Sperrigoe himself, turn up to ask a direct question as to how he became possessed of the copper box, why does he run off?”

“Happening to know him,” said Madrasia quickly, “I can answer that. For good and honest reasons of his own!”

“As his friend and solicitor,” remarked Murthwaite, “I say Amen to that! But—why not have given some explanation?”

But it was time for me to step in there.

“Mr. Murthwaite!” I said. “Neither Pawley nor Sir Charles Sperrigoe asked for any explanation! Sperrigoe, of course, never saw Mr. Parslewe; Pawley came here as a mere spy”

“Yes, yes!” he interrupted. “But what I really mean is, why didn’t he give some explanation to you?”

“To me!” I exclaimed. “Why to me?”

“Because you were the only person who knew the—shall we say immediate facts of the case?” he replied. “Evidently, although you have only known each other a few days, he trusts you, Mr. Craye. Why didn’t he give you a brief explanation of this seeming mystery instead of stealing away in the night? Why?”

“As I said!” exclaimed Madrasia. “For good reasons—of his own.”

Murthwaite drummed his fingers on the table, regarding us intently.

“Don’t you see?” he said suddenly. “Don’t you realise the suspicion he has brought on himself? Sir Charles Sperrigoe doesn’t know him.”

“I’m not so sure of that!” said I, with equal suddenness. “Anyway, I’m quite sure he knows Sperrigoe—or knew him once. Sure of it from a remark he made when I was telling him about Sperrigoe.”

“Eh!” exclaimed Murthwaite. “What remark?”

I told him. He rose suddenly from his chair, as if an idea had struck him, and for a minute or two paced the room, evidently thinking. Then he came back to the table, resumed his seat, and turned from one to the other, pointing to the two telegrams which still lay where he had put them down.

“Let us get to business,” he said. “Now I suppose you two young people are going to meet Parslewe at Newcastle to-morrow morning in response to those wires?”

“Certainly,” answered Madrasia. “And we shall take the copper box with us.”

“Very well,” he continued. “Then I want you to do three things. First, tell Parslewe all that I have told you as regards the Palkeney affair. Second, tell him that on my own responsibility, and as his friend and solicitor, I have given Sir Charles Sperrigoe an assurance—a pledge, in fact—that he will, as quickly as possible, give Sir Charles a full account of how box and books came into his possession, so that their progress from Palkeney Manor to Kelpieshaw may be traced—it’s inconceivable, of course, that Mr. Parslewe came by them in any other than an honest way. Third, I have persuaded Sir Charles to go home—where he awaits Mr. Parslewe’s communication.”

“Oh!” said Madrasia. “But has he gone?”

“He went south after seeing me—by the next train,” replied Murthwaite.

“Leaving the police inspector at Wooler under the impression that my guardian is a possible thief, eh?” suggested Madrasia.

“Nothing of the sort!” retorted Murthwaite. “Come, come, my dear young lady!—things aren’t done in that way. All that Sperrigoe did in that quarter was to make certain guarded inquiries as to Parslewe’s status in the neighbourhood. The police know nothing, of course.”

There was a brief silence, broken at last by Madrasia.

“Of course, we will give my guardian your message,” she said. “Every word! But, Mr. Murthwaite, haven’t you any idea of what all this is about? All this fuss, mystery, running up and down country about a copper box—that box?”

Murthwaite laughed, and turning to the sideboard took the copper box from it.

“I’ve no more idea of the solution of the mystery than you have,” he answered. “This article is certainly a curiosity in itself. Fine old beaten copper, beautifully made, and beautifully engraved. But why all this fuss about it—as you say—I can’t think. Still, when a dying man mutters what old Matthew Palkeney did, over and over again, eh? Naturally his man-of-law wants to get at some sort of clearing up. My own notion is that it’s not the copper box, but what may have been in the copper box! Not the case, but the contents—don’t you see?”

“You think something was kept in it at Palkeney Manor?” I suggested.

“Probably,” he assented. “That’s just about what I do think.”

“And that the original thief has stolen whatever it was?”

“Just so! The box may have passed through several hands before it came into Parslewe’s. Parslewe no doubt picked up this thing in some curio shop—the books, too.”

“Have the people of Palkeney Manor any idea as to how the theft occurred?” I asked.

“None!—according to Sperrigoe. But I understand that Palkeney Manor is a sort of show-place. That is, there are certain rooms which are shown to the public, including the library. A shilling fee is charged on certain mornings of the week—the proceeds are given to the local charities. And, of course, Sperrigoe thinks that this box and the books were stolen by some visitor only just before old Mr. Matthew Palkeney’s death. So—there we are! All that’s wanted now is—a few words from Parslewe.”

He then said he must go, and presently we went down the stair and out into the courtyard with him. Old Edie brought out the ; with his hand on its bridle Murthwaite turned to Madrasia.

“Now just get Parslewe to come straight back and tell me all about it so that I can write to Sperrigoe and clear up the mystery,” he said. “Tell him all I have said, and that he must come at once.”

But Madrasia was beginning to show signs of a certain mutinous spirit.

“We’ll tell him every word you’ve said, and all about Sperrigoe coming here, and Weech coming, too,” she answered. “But, you know, Mr. Murthwaite, you’re completely ignoring something, lawyer though you are!”

“What?” he asked, with an amused laugh.

“That my guardian would never have gone away, never have wired for Mr. Craye and myself, never asked that the copper box should be brought to him, unless he had very good and strong reasons,” she answered. “Do you think he’s playing at something? Rot! The whole thing’s much more serious than you think!”

Murthwaite looked from her to me.

“That your opinion, too, Mr. Craye?” he asked.

“It is!” said I. “My absolute opinion.”

He shook hands with us, and got into his saddle. He bent down for a last word.

“Never been so curious about a matter in my life!” he said. “But it must end!”

Then he rode off across the moor and disappeared. And next morning Madrasia and I journeyed to Newcastle, she carrying the copper box, neatly tied up and sealed. Our train ran in at the very time at which we were to meet Parslewe. But we saw no Parslewe. We stood staring around us until a man in the livery of a hall-porter came along, eyeing us closely, and stopped at my side.

“Beg pardon, sir—Mr. Craye, sir? Just so, sir—Mr. Parslewe’s compliments, and will you and the young lady join him at lunch in the hotel? This way, sir.”