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Updated: June 16, 2025
He looked from Carstairs to the Coroner, and from the Coroner to Hawthwaite, and suddenly, while Carstairs was taking the oath, he slipped from his seat, approached Cotman, a local solicitor, who sat listening, close by Tansley, and began to talk to him in hurried undertones. Tansley nudged Brent's elbow. "Wellesley's tumbled to it!" he whispered. "The police suspect him!"
"You forget I've been a press-man for some years." "But you didn't get that sort of thing?" suggested Tansley, half incredulous. Brent flicked the ash from his cigar and smiled. "Don't go in for tall talk," he said lazily.
"Well," he said at last, "I don't think that I'm a particularly sentimental sort of person, but all the same I'm not storm-proof against sentiment. And I've just got the conviction that it's up to me to go on with my cousin's job in this place." Tansley took his cigar from his lips and whistled. "Tall order, Brent!" he remarked. "So I reckon," assented Brent.
Can you recommend a solicitor, now?" "There's Mr. Tansley," replied Hawthwaite. "His office is next door to his late Worship's a sound man, Tansley, Mr. Brent. And, if I were you, I should get Tansley to represent you at the inquest to-morrow legal assistance is a good thing to have, sir, at an affair of that sort." Brent nodded his acquiescence and went back to his hotel.
But, within the rapidly emptying court Brent, Tansley and Hawthwaite were grouped around Meeking the barrister was indulging in some private remarks upon the morning's proceedings, chiefly addressed to the police superintendent. "There's no doubt about it, you know," he was saying.
"Maybe; but they've got all the really influential men behind 'em, the moneyed men," said Tansley. "And they've distributed all the various official posts, sinecures most of 'em, amongst their friends. That Town Trustee business is the nut to crack here, Brent, and a nut that's been hardening for centuries isn't going to be cracked with an ordinary implement.
He saw little of the efforts of the other side; but Peppermore agreed with Tansley that the opposition would leave no stone unturned in the task of beating him. The Monitor was all for Brent Peppermore's proprietor was a Progressive; a tradesman who had bought up the Monitor for a mere song, and ran it as a business speculation which had so far turned out very satisfactorily.
Scarcely know her myself." "I think you said my cousin knew her?" suggested Brent. "Your cousin and she, latterly, were very thick," asserted Tansley. "He spent a lot of time at her house. During nearly all last autumn and winter, though, she was away in the South of France. Oh, yes, Wallingford often went to dine with her.
"Everybody tumbles to that! We've been going off on all sorts of side-tracks all the morning, now Wellesley, now Mrs. Mallett, and now here's another! Access to the Mayor's Parlour there you are! Easy as winking, on Krevin Crood's theory. Lay you a fiver to a shilling old Seagrave won't go on any farther." Herein Tansley was quickly proved to be right.
The fragment went the round of the bench of magistrates, and Tansley whispered to Brent that if Meeking could prove that Krevin Crood had taken that handkerchief out of Mallett's drawer, and had thrown it away on the following evening in the Mayor's Parlour, Krevin's neck was in danger. "But there's a link missing yet," he murmured. "How did Krevin get at Wallingford? They've got to prove that!
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