The Greatest Works of J. S. Fletcher (64+ Titles in One Illustrated Edition). J. S. Fletcher

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ a look at the place where you told us Parrawhite was to meet Pratt that night," replied Byner. "I thought you would perhaps be kind enough to show me where it is."

      "I will, an' all—wi' pleasure," said the landlord, "but ye mun hev a drop o' summat first—try a glass o' our ale," he went on, with true Yorkshire hospitality. "I hev some bitter beer i' my cellar such as I'll lay owt ye couldn't get t' likes on down yonder i' Barford—no, nor i' London neyther!—I'll just draw a jug."

      Byner submitted to this evidence of friendliness, and Pickard, after disappearing into a dark archway and down some deeply worn stone steps, came back with a foaming jug, the sight of which seemed to give him great delight. He gazed admiringly at the liquor which he presently poured into two tumblers, and drew his visitor's attention to its colour.

      "Reight stuff that, mister—what?" he said. "I nobbut tapped that barril two days since, and I'd been keepin' it twelve month, so you've come in for it at what they call t' opportune moment. I say!" he went on, after pledging Byner and smacking his lips over the ale. "I heard summat last night 'at might be useful to you and Lawyer Eldrick—about this here Parrawhite affair."

      "Oh!" said Byner, at once interested. "What now?"

      "You'll ha' noticed, as you come along t' road just now, 'at there's a deal o' stone quarries i' this neighbourhood?" replied Pickard. "Well, now, of course, some o' t' quarry men comes in here. Last night theer wor sev'ral on 'em i' t' bar theer, talkin', and one on 'em wor readin' t' evenin' newspaper—t' Barford Dispatch. An' he read out that theer advertisement about Parrawhite—wi' your address i' London at t' foot on it. Well, theer wor nowt said, except summat about advertisin' for disappeared folk, but later on, one o' t' men, a young man, come to me, private like. 'I say, Pickard,' he says, 'between you an' me, worrn't t' name o' that man 'at used to come in here on a Sunday sometimes, Parrawhite? It runs a' my mind,' he says, ''at I've heerd you call him by that name.' 'Well, an' what if it wor?' I says. 'Nay, nowt much,' he says, 'but I see fro' t' Dispatch 'at he's wanted, and I could tell a bit about him,' he says. 'What could ye tell?' says I—just like that theer. 'Why,' he says, 'this much—one night t' last back-end——'"

      "Stop a bit, Mr. Pickard," interrupted Byner. "What does that mean—that term 'back-end'?"

      "Why, it means t' end o' t' year!" answered the landlord. "What some folks call autumn, d'ye understand? 'One night t' last back-end,' says this young fellow, 'I wor hengin' about on t' quiet at t' end o' Stubbs' Lane,' he says: 'T' truth wor,' he says, 'I wor waitin' for a word wi' a young woman 'at lives i' that terrace at t' top o' Stubbs' Lane—she wor goin' to come out and meet me for half an hour or so. An,' he says, 'I see'd that theer feller 'at I think I've heerd you call Parrawhite, come out o' Stubbs' Lane wi' that lawyer chap 'at lives i' t' Terrace—Pratt. I know Pratt,' he says, ''cause them 'at he works for—Eldricks—once did a bit o' law business for me.' 'Where did you see 'em go to, then?' says I. 'I see'd 'em cross t' road into t' owd quarry ground,' he says. 'I see'd 'em plain enough, tho' they didn't see me—I wor keepin' snug agen 't wall—it wor a moonlit night, that,' he says. 'Well,' I says, 'an' what now?' 'Why,' he says, 'd'yer think I could get owt o' this reward for tellin that theer?' So I thowt pretty sharp then, d'ye see, mister. 'I'll tell yer what, mi lad,' I says. 'Say nowt to nobody—keep your tongue still—and I'll tell ye tomorrow night what ye can do—I shall see a man 'at's on that job 'tween now and then,' I says. So theer it is," concluded Pickard, looking hard at Byner. "D'yer think this chap's evidence 'ud be i' your line?"

      "Decidedly I do!" replied Byner. "Where is he to be found?"

      "I couldn't say wheer he lives," answered the landlord. "But it'll be somewhere close about; anyway, he'll be in here tonight. Bill Thomson t' feller's name is—decent young feller enough."

      "I must contrive to see him, certainly," said Byner. "Well, now, can you show me this Stubbs' Lane and the neighbourhood?"

      "Just step along t' road a bit and I'll join you in a few o' minutes," assented Pickard. "We'd best not be seen leavin t' house together, or our folk'll think it's a put-up job. Walk forrard a piece."

      Byner strolled along the road a little way, and leaned over a wall until Mr. Pickard, wearing his white billycock hat and accompanied by a fine fox-terrier, lounged up with his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat. Together they went a little further along.

      "Now then!" said the landlord, crossing the road towards the entrance of a narrow lane which ran between two high stone walls. "This here is Stubbs' Lane—so called, I believe, 'cause an owd gentleman named similar used to hev a house here 'at's been pulled down. Ye see, it runs up fro' this high-road towards yon terrace o' houses. Folks hereabouts calls that terrace t' World's End, 'cause they're t' last houses afore ye get on to t' open moorlands. Now, that night 'at Parrawhite wor aimin' to meet Pratt, it wor i' this very lane. Pratt, when he left t' tram-car, t' other side o' my place, 'ud come up t' road, and up this lane. And it wor at t' top o' t' lane 'at Bill Thomson see'd Pratt and Parrawhite cross into what Bill called t' owd quarry ground."

      "Can we go into that?" asked Byner.

      "Nowt easier!" said Pickard. "It's a sort of open space where t' childer goes and plays about: they hev'n't worked no stone theer for many a long year—all t' stone's exhausted, like."

      He led Byner along the lane to its further end, pointed out the place where Thomson said he had seen Pratt and Parrawhite, and indicated the terrace of houses in which Pratt lived. Then he crossed towards the old quarries.

      "Don't know what they should want to come in here for—unless it wor to talk very confidential," said Pickard. "But lor bless yer!—it 'ud be quiet enough anywheer about this neighbourhood at that time o' neet. However, this is wheer Bill Thomson says he see'd 'em come."

      He led the way amongst the disused quarries, and Byner, following, climbed on a mound, now grown over with grass and weed, and looked about him. To his town eyes the place was something novel. He had never seen the like of it before. Gradually he began to understand it. The stone had been torn out of the earth, sometimes in square pits, sometimes in semi-circular ones, until the various veins and strata had become exhausted. Then, when men went away, Nature had stepped in to assert her rights. All over the despoiled region she had spread a new clothing of green. Turf had grown on the flooring of the quarries; ivy and bramble had covered the deep scars; bushes had sprung up; trees were already springing. And in one of the worn-out excavations some man had planted a kitchen-garden in orderly and formal rows and plots.

      "Dangerous place that there!" said Pickard suddenly. "If I'd known o' that, I shouldn't ha' let my young 'uns come to play about here. They might be tummlin' in and drownin' theirsens! I mun tell my missis to keep 'em away!"

      Byner turned—to find the landlord pointing at the old shaft which had gradually become filled with water. In the morning sunlight its surface glittered like a plane of burnished metal, but when the two men went nearer and gazed at it from its edge, the water was black and unfathomable to the eye.

      "Goodish thirty feet o' water in that there!" surmised Pickard. "It's none safe for childer to play about—theer's nowt to protect 'em. Next time I see Mestur Shepherd I shall mak' it my business to tell him so; he owt either to drain that watter off or put a fence around it."

      "Is Mr. Shepherd the property-owner?" asked Byner.

      "Aye!—it's all his, this land," answered Pickard. He pointed to a low-roofed house set amidst elms and chestnuts, some distance off across the moor. "Lives theer, does Mestur Shepherd—varry well-to-do man, he is."

      "How could that water be drained off?" asked Byner with assumed carelessness.

      "Easy enough!" replied Pickard. СКАЧАТЬ