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Updated: June 21, 2025
"You don't love Alderman Crood?" suggested Brent. Peppermore picked up his glass of bitter ale and drank off what remained. He set down the glass with a bang. "Wouldn't trust him any farther than I could throw his big carcase!" he said with decision. "Nor any more than I would Krevin there bad 'uns, both of 'em.
"I laid it on top of one of several piles of handkerchiefs that were in Mr. Mallett's handkerchief drawer in the dressing-room." "Why did you put it on top?" "In case any inquiry was made about it from Marriners' Laundry." "Was any inquiry made?" "No." "Now was that drawer you have just spoken of the drawer that you pulled open for Mr. Krevin Crood?" "Yes." "Was the handkerchief there then?"
An idea had flashed through his mind as he looked at Krevin Crood in the broken man's brief interchange of remarks with the half-insolent tradesman: an idea which he had been careful not to mention to Peppermore.
And in the end they had to get rid of him as Magistrates' Clerk, I mean: it was impossible to keep him on any longer. He'd frittered away his solicitor's practice too by that time, and come to the end of his resources. But Simon was already a powerful man in the town, so they he and some others cooked things nicely for Krevin. Krevin Crood, Mr.
Krevin Crood, said Peppermore, was mainly dependent on his pension of three pounds a week from the borough authorities a pension which, of course, was terminable at the pleasure of those authorities; Wallingford had let it be known, plainly and unmistakably, that he was going to advocate the discontinuance of these drains on the town's resources: Krevin Crood, accordingly, would be one of the first to suffer if Wallingford got his way, as he was likely to do.
"We've got at the truth at last about your cousin," continued Hawthwaite, with a significant look. "It's been a case of one thing leading to another. And two things running side by side. If we hadn't cornered Krevin Crood we'd never have had his revelations about the Town Trustees.
And there you are!" "Once again," said the chairman, "who was this woman?" Krevin Crood might have been answering the most casual of casual questions. "Who?" he replied. "Why Mrs. Saumarez!" Brent was out of his seat near the door, out of the court itself, out of the Moot Hall, and in the market-place before he realized what he was doing.
Lawrence Lane," he remarked. "But I want some formal evidence about it that can be put on the record. I see Mr. Krevin Crood there I believe Mr. Crood is as big an authority on Hathelsborough as anybody living perhaps he'll oblige me by coming forward." Krevin Crood, sitting at the front of the densely-packed mass of spectators, rose and walked into the witness-box.
It was to the churchyard that Brent gave most attention; he immediately realized that Krevin Crood was quite right in speaking of it as a place wherein anybody could conveniently hide a dark, gloomy, sheltered, high-walled place, filled with thick shrubbery, out of which, here and there, grew sombre yew-trees, some of them of an antiquity as venerable as that of the church itself.
"Ay!" said Hawthwaite. "As I said just now, I'd have given a good deal to know. But Krevin Crood is a deep, designing, secret sort of man, and that woman, whoever she may be, looks just the same." "Has she been with Mrs. Saumarez long?" asked Brent. "Came with her, when Mrs. Saumarez first came and took the Abbey House," replied Hawthwaite. "Always been with her; went away with her when Mrs.
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