The Collected Works of J. S. Fletcher: 17 Novels & 28 Short Stories (Illustrated Edition). J. S. Fletcher
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"Good stuff that!" he remarked, smacking his lips. "Some of old John Mallathorpe's—no doubt."
"It was here when we came, anyhow," replied Esther. "Well—I shall have to go. You'll be all right until I come back."
"What time do you think it'll be?" asked Pratt. "Make it as soon as the coast's clear—I want to be off."
"As soon as ever she's gone," agreed Esther. "I heard her order the carriage for half-past two."
"And no fear of anybody else being about?" asked Pratt. "That butler man, for instance? Or servants?"
"I'll see to it," replied Esther reassuringly. "I'll lock this door and take the key until I come back—make yourself comfortable."
She locked Pratt in the old room and went off, and the willing prisoner ate his sandwiches and drank his sherry, and looked out of a mullioned window on the wide stretches of park and coppice and the breezy moorlands beyond. He indulged in some reflections—not wholly devoid of sentiment. He had cherished dreams of becoming the virtual owner of Normandale. Always confident in his own powers, he had believed that with time and patience he could have persuaded Nesta Mallathorpe to marry him—why not? Now—all owing to that cursed and unfortunate contretemps with Parrawhite, that seemed utterly impossible—all he could do now was to save himself—and to take as much as he could get. More than once that morning, as he made his way across country, he had remembered Parrawhite's advice to take cash and be done with it—perhaps, he reflected, it might have been better. Still—when he presently began his final retreat, he would carry away with him a lot of the Mallathorpe money.
But before long Pratt indulged in no more reflections—sentiment or practical. He had eaten all his sandwiches; he had drunk three-quarters of the bottle of sherry. And suddenly he felt unusually drowsy, and he laid his head back in his big chair, and fell soundly asleep.
Chapter XXVI. The Telephone Message
If Pratt had only known what was going on in the old quarries at Whitcliffe, about the very time that he was riding slowly out to Barford on his bicycle, he would not only have accelerated his pace, but would have taken good care to have chosen another route: he would also have made haste to exchange bicycle for railway train as quickly as possible, and to have got himself far away before anybody could begin looking for him in his usual haunts, or at places wherein there was a possibility of his being found. But Pratt knew nothing of what Byner had done. He was conscious of Byner's visit to the Green Man. He did not know what Pickard had been told by Bill Thomson. He was unaware of anything which Pickard had told to Byner. If he had known that Byner, guided by Pickard, had been to the old quarries, had fixed his inquiring eye on the shaft which was filled to its brim with water, and had got certain ideas from the mere sight of it, Pratt would have hastened to put hundreds of miles between himself and Barford as quickly as possible. But all that Pratt knew was that there was a possibility of suspicion—which might materialize eventually, but not immediately.
On the previous evening, Pratt—had he but known it—made a great mistake. Instead of going into Murgatroyd's shop after he had watched Byner and Prydale away from it—he should have followed those two astute and crafty persons, and have ascertained something of their movements. Had he done so, he would certainly not have troubled to return to Peel Row, nor to remain in Barford an hour longer than was absolutely necessary. For Pratt was sharp-witted enough when it came to a question of putting one and two together, and if he had tracked Prydale and the unknown man who was with him to a certain house whereto they repaired as soon as they quitted Murgatroyd's shop, he would have drawn an inference from the mere fact of their visit which would have thrown him into a cold sweat of fear. But Pratt, after all, was only one man, one brain, one body, and could not be in two places, nor go in two ways, at the same time. He took his own way—ignorant of his destruction.
Byner also took a way of his own. As soon as he and Prydale left Murgatroyd's shop, they chartered the first cab they met with, and ordered its driver to go to Whitcliffe Moor.
"It's the quickest thing to do—if my theory's correct," observed Byner, as they drove along, "Of course, it is all theory—mere theory! But I've grounds for it. The place—the time—mere lonely situation—that scrap iron lying about, which would be so useful in weighting a dead body!—I tell you, I shall be surprised if we don't find Parrawhite at the bottom of that water!"
"I shouldn't wonder," agreed Prydale. "One thing's very certain, as we shall prove before we're through with it—Pratt's put that poor devil Murgatroyd up to this passage-to-America business. And a bit clumsily, too—fancy Murgatroyd being no better posted up than to tell me that Parrawhite called on him at a certain hour that night!"
"But you've got to remember that Pratt didn't know of Parrawhite's affairs with Pickard, nor that he was at the Green Man at that hour," rejoined Byner. "My belief is that Pratt thinks himself safe—that he fancies he's provided for all contingencies. If things turn out as I think they will, I believe we shall find Pratt calmly seated at his desk tomorrow morning."
"Well—if things do turn out as you expect, we'll lose no time in seeking him there!" observed Prydale dryly. "We'd better arrange to get the job done first thing."
"This Mr. Shepherd'll make no objection, I suppose?" asked Byner.
"Objection! Lor' bless you—he'll love it!" exclaimed Prydale. "It'll be a bit of welcome diversion to a man like him that's naught to do. He'll object none, not he!"
Shepherd, a retired quarry-owner, who lived in a picturesque old stone house in the middle of Whitcliffe Moor, with nothing to occupy his attention but the growing of roses and vegetables, and an occasional glance at the local newspapers, listened to Prydale's request with gradually rising curiosity. Byner had at once seen that this call was welcome to this bluff and hearty Yorkshireman, who, without any question as to their business, had immediately welcomed them to his hearth and pressed liquor and cigars on them: he sized up Shepherd as a man to whom any sort of break in the placid course of retired life was a delightful event.
"A dead man i' that old shaft i' one o' my worked out quarries!" he exclaimed. "Ye don't mean to say so! An' how long d'yer think he might ha' been there, now, Prydale?"
"Some months, Mr. Shepherd," replied the detective.
"Why, then it's high time he were taken out," said Shepherd. "When might you be thinkin' o' doin' t' job, like?"
"As soon as possible," said Prydale. "Tomorrow morning, early, if that's convenient to you."
"I'll tell you what I'll do," observed the retired quarry-owner. "You leave t' job to me. I'll get two or three men first thing tomorrow morning, and we'll do it reight. You be up there by half-past eight o'clock, and we'll soon satisfy you as to whether there's owt i' t' shape of a dead man or not i' t' pit. You hev' grounds for believin' 'at theer is——what?"
"Strong grounds!" replied the detective, "and equally strong ones for believing the man came there by foul play, too."
"Say no more!" said Shepherd. "T' mystery shall be cleared up. Deary me! An' to think 'at I've walked past yon theer pit many a dozen times within this last few o' months, and nivver dreamed 'at theer wor owt in it but watter! Howivver, gentlemen, ye can put yer minds at ease—we'll investigate the circumstances, as the sayin' goes, before noon tomorrow."
"One other matter," remarked Prydale. "We want things kept quiet. We don't want all the folk of the neighbourhood round about, you know."
"Leave it to me," answered Shepherd. "There'll be me, and these men, and yourselves—and a pair of grapplin' irons. We'll do it quiet and comfortable—and we'll do it reight."
"Odd character!" remarked Byner, when he and Prydale went away.
"Useful man—for a job of that sort," said the detective laconically. "Now then—are we going to let anybody else know what we're after—Mr. Eldrick or Mr. Collingwood, for instance? Do you want them, or either of them,