J. S. Fletcher - The Collected Works of J. S. Fletcher - 17 Novels & 28 Short Stories (Illustrated Edition)

"You said—'or says he knows,'" he remarked. "Do you think he didn't tell the truth about Parrawhite?"

"I should say—now—it's quite likely he didn't," answered Eldrick. "The truth is, I'm making some inquiry myself about Pratt—and I don't want this to interfere with it. You keep me informed of what you find out, and I'll help you all I can while you're here. It may be——"

A clerk came into the room and looked at his master.

"Mr. George Pickard, of the Green Man at Whitcliffe, sir," he said.

"Well?" asked Eldrick.

"Wants to see you about that advertisement in the paper this morning, sir," continued the clerk.

Eldrick looked at Byner and smiled significantly. Then he turned towards the door.

"Bring Mr. Pickard in," he said.

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The clerk presently ushered in a short, thick-set, round-faced man, apparently of thirty to thirty-five years of age, whose chief personal characteristics lay in a pair of the smallest eyes ever set in a human countenance and a mere apology for a nose. But both nose and eyes combined somehow to communicate an idea of profound inquiry as the round face in which they were placed turned from the solicitor to the man from London, and a podgy forefinger was lifted to a red forehead.

"Servant, gentlemen," said the visitor. "Fine morning for the time of year!"

"Take a chair, Mr. Pickard," replied Eldrick. "Let me see—from the Green Man , at Whitcliffe, I believe?"

"Landlord, sir—had that house a many years," answered Pickard, as he took a seat near the wall. "Seven year come next Michaelmas, any road."

"Just so—and you want to see me about the advertisement in this morning's paper?" continued Eldrick. "What about it—now?"

The landlord looked at Eldrick and then at Eldrick's companion. The solicitor understood that look: it meant that what his caller had to say was of a private nature.

"It's all right, Mr. Pickard," he remarked reassuringly. "This gentleman is here on just the same business—whatever you say will be treated as confidential—it'll go no further. You've something to tell about my late clerk, James Parrawhite."

Pickard, who had been nervously fingering a white billycock hat, now put it down on the floor and thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers as if to keep them safe while he talked.

"It's like this here," he answered. "When I saw that there advertisement in the paper this mornin', says I to my missus, 'I'll away,' I says, 'an' see Lawyer Eldrick about that there, this very day!' 'Cause you see, Mr. Eldrick, there is summat as I can tell about yon man 'at you mention—James Parrawhite. I've said nowt about it to nobody, up to now, 'cause it were private business atween him and me, as it were, but I lost money over it, and of course, ten pound is ten pound, gentlemen."

"Quite so," agreed Eldrick, "And you shall have your ten pounds if you can tell anything useful."

"I don't know owt about it's being useful, sir, nor what use is to be made on it," said Pickard, "but I can tell you a bit o' truth, and you can do what you like wi' what I tell. But," he went on, lowering his voice and glancing at the door by which he had just entered, "there's another name 'at 'll have to be browt in—private, like. Name, as it so happens, o' one o' your clerks—t' head clerk, I'm given to understand—Mr. Pratt."

Eldrick showed no sign of surprise. But he continued to look significantly at Byner as he turned to the landlord.

"Mr. Pratt has left me," he said. "Left me three weeks ago. So you needn't be afraid, Mr. Pickard—say anything you like."

"Oh, I didn't know," remarked Pickard. "It's not oft that I come down in t' town, and we don't hear much Barford news up our way. Well, it's this here, Mr. Eldrick—you know where my place is, of course?"

Eldrick nodded, and turned to Byner.

"I'd better explain to you," he said. "Whitcliffe is an outlying part of the town, well up the hills—a sort of wayside hamlet with a lot of our famous stone quarries in its vicinity. The Green Man , of which our friend here is the landlord, is an old-fashioned tavern by the roadside—where people are rather fond of dropping in on a Sunday, I fancy, eh, Mr. Pickard?"

"You're right, sir," replied the landlord. "It makes a nice walk out on a Sunday. And it were on a Sunday, too, 'at I got to know this here James Parrawhite as you want to know summat about. He began coming to my place of a Sunday evenin', d'ye see, gentlemen?—he'd walk across t' valley up there to Whitcliffe and stop an hour or two, enjoyin' hisself. Well, now, as you're no doubt well aweer, Mr. Eldrick, he were a reight hand at talkin', were yon Parrawhite—he'd t' gift o' t' gab reight enough, and talked well an' all. And of course him an' me, we hed bits o' conversation at times, 'cause he come to t' house reg'lar and sometimes o' week-nights an' all. An' he tell'd me 'at he'd had a deal o' experience i' racin' matters—whether it were true or not, I couldn't say, but——"

"True enough!" said Eldrick. "He had."

"Well, so he said," continued Pickard, "and he was allus tellin' me 'at he could make a pile o' brass on t' turf if he only had capital. An' i' t' end, he persuaded me to start what he called investin' money with him i' that way—i' plain language, it meant givin' him brass to put on horses 'at he said was goin' to win, d'ye understand?"

"Perfectly," replied Eldrick. "You gave him various amounts which he was to stake for you."

"Just so, sir! And at first," said Pickard, with a shake of the head, "at first I'd no great reason to grumble. He cert'ny wor a good hand at spottin' a winner. But as time went on, I' t' greatest difficulty in gettin' a settlement wi' him, d'ye see? He wor just as good a hand at makin' excuses as he wor at pickin' out winners—better, I think! I nivver knew wheer I was wi' him—he'd pay up, and then he'd persuade me to go in for another do wi' t' brass I'd won, and happen we should lose that time, and then of course we had to hev another investment to get back what we'd dropped, and so it went on. But t' end wor this here—last November theer wor about fifty to sixty pound o' mine i' his hands, and I wanted it. I'd a spirit merchant's bill to settle, and I wanted t' brass badly for that. I knew Parrawhite had been paid, d'ye see, by t' turf agent, 'at he betted wi', and I plagued him to hand t' brass over to me. He made one excuse and then another—howsumivver, it come to that very day you're talkin' about i' your advertisement, Mr. Eldrick—the twenty-third o' November——"

"Stop a minute, Mr. Pickard," interrupted Eldrick. "Now, how do you know—for a certainty—that this day you're going to talk about was the twenty-third of November?"

The landlord, who had removed his hands from his pockets, and was now twiddling a pair of fat thumbs as he talked, chuckled slyly.

"For a very good reason," he answered. "I had to pay that spirit bill I tell'd about just now on t' twenty-fourth, and that I'm going to tell you happened t' night afore t' twenty-fourth, so of course it were t' twenty-third. D'ye see?"

"I see," asserted Eldrick. "That'll do! And now—what did happen?"

"This here," replied Pickard. "On that night—t' twenty-third November—Parrawhite came into t' Green Man at about, happen, half-past eight. He come into t' little private parlour to me, bold as brass—as indeed, he allers wor. 'Ye're a nice un!' I says. 'I've written yer three letters durin' t' last week, and ye've nivver answered one o' 'em!' 'I've come to answer i' person,' he says. 'There's nobbut one answer I want,' says I. 'Wheer's my money?' 'Now then, be quiet a bit,' he says. 'You shall have your money before the evening's over,' he says. 'Or, if not, as soon as t' banks is open tomorrow mornin',' he says. 'Wheer's it coomin' from?' says I. 'Now, never you mind,' he says. 'It's safe!' 'I don't believe a word you're sayin',' says I. 'Ye're havin' me for t' mug!—that's about it.' An' I went on so at him, 'at i' t' end he tell'd me 'at he wor presently goin' to meet Pratt, and 'at he could get t' brass out o' Pratt an' as much more as iwer he liked to ax for. Well, I don't believe that theer, and I said so. 'What brass has Pratt?' says I. 'Pratt's nowt but a clerk, wi' happen three or four pound a week!' 'That's all you know,' he says. 'Pratt's become a gold mine, and I'm going to dig in it a bit. What's it matter to you,' he says, 'so long as you get your brass?' Well, of course, that wor true enough—all 'at I wanted just then were to handle my brass. And I tell'd him so. 'I'll brek thy neck, Parrawhite,' I says, 'if thou doesn't bring me that theer money eyther to-night or t' first thing tomorrow—so now!' 'Don't talk rot!' he says. 'I've told you!' And he had money wi' him then—'nough to pay for drinks and cigars, any road, and we had a drink or two, and a smoke or two, and then he went out, sayin' he wor goin' to meet Pratt, and he'd be back at my place before closin' time wi' either t' cash or what 'ud be as good. An' I waited—and waited after closin' time, an' all. But I've nivver seen Parrawhite from that day to this—-nor heerd tell on him neither!"