“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 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.