Scarhaven Keep
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"Oh, certainly, certainly!" asserted Mr. Dennie, pushing his packet across the table. "Take care of 'em, my boy!—ye don't know how important they may turn out to be."
"And—Mrs. Greyle?" asked Copplestone.
"Tell whatever you think it best to tell," replied Mrs. Greyle. "My own opinion is that a lot will have to be told—and to come out, yet."
"We can catch a train in three-quarters of an hour, Copplestone," said Gilling. "Let's get back and settle up with Mrs. Wooler and be off."
Copplestone contrived to draw Audrey aside.
"This isn't good-bye," he whispered, with a meaning look. "You'll see me back here before many days are over. But listen—if anything happens here, if you want anybody's help—in any way—you know what I mean—promise you'll wire to me at this address. Promise!—or I won't go."
"Very well," said Audrey, "I promise. But—why shall you come back?"
"Tell you when I come," replied Copplestone with another look. "But—I shall come—and soon. I'm only going because I want to be of use—to you."
An hour later he and Gilling were on their way to London, and from opposite corners of a compartment which they had contrived to get to themselves, they exchanged looks.
"This is a queer business, Copplestone!" said Gilling. "It strikes me it's going to be a big one, too. And—it's coming to a point round Squire Greyle."
"Do you think your man will have tracked him?" asked Copplestone.
"It will be the first time Swallow's ever lost sight of anybody if he hasn't," answered Gilling. "He's a human ferret! However, I wired to him just before we left, telling him to meet me at King's Cross, so we'll get his report. Oh, he'll have followed him all right—I don't imagine for a moment that Greyle is trying to evade anybody, at this juncture, at any rate."
But when—four hours later—the train drew into King's Cross—and Gilling's partner, a young and sharp-looking man, presented himself, it was with a long and downcast face and a lugubrious shake of the head.
"Done!—for the first time in my life!" he growled in answer to Gilling's eager inquiry. "Lost him! Never failed before—as you know. Well, it had to come, I suppose—can't go on without an occasional defeat. But—I'm a bit licked as to the whole thing—unless your man is dodging somebody. Is he?"
"Tell your tale," commanded Gilling, motioning Copplestone to follow him and Swallow aside.
"I was up here in good time this afternoon to meet his train," reported Swallow. "I spotted him and his man at once; no difficulty, as your description of both was so full. They were together while the luggage was got out; then he, Greyle, gave some instructions to the man and left him. He himself got into a taxi-cab; I got into another close behind and gave its driver certain orders. Greyle drove straight to the Fragonard Club—you know."
"Ah!" exclaimed Gilling. "Did he, now? That's worth knowing."
"What's the Fragonard Club?" asked Copplestone. "Never heard of it."
"Club of folk connected with the stage and the music-halls," answered Gilling, testily. "In a side street, off Shaftesbury Avenue—tell you more of it, later. Go on, Swallow."
"He paid off his driver there, and went in," continued Swallow. "I paid mine and hung about—there's only one entrance and exit to that spot, as you know. He came out again within five minutes, stuffing some letters into his pocket. He walked away across Shaftesbury Avenue into Wardour Street—there he went into a tobacconist's shop. Of course, I hung about again. But this time he didn't come. So at last I walked in—to buy something. He wasn't there!"
"Pooh!—he'd slipped out—walked out—when you weren't looking!" said Gilling. "Why didn't you keep your eye on the ball, man?—you!"
"You be hanged!" retorted Swallow. "Never had an eyelash off that shop door from the time he entered until I, too, entered."
"Then there's a side-door to that shop—into some alley or passage," said Gilling.
"Not that I could find," answered Swallow. "Might be at the rear of the premises perhaps, but I couldn't ascertain, of course. Remember!—there's another thing. He may have stopped on the premises. There's that in it. However, I know the shop and the name."
"Why didn't you bring somebody else with you, to follow the man and the luggage?" demanded Gilling, half-petulantly.
Swallow shook his head.
"There I made a mess of it, I confess," he admitted. "But it never struck me they'd separate. I thought, of course, they'd drive straight to some hotel, and—"
"And the long and the short of it is, Greyle's slipped you," said Gilling. "Well—there's no more to be done tonight. The only thing of value is that Greyle called at the Fragonard. What's a country squire—only recently come to England, too!—to do with the Fragonard? That is worth something. Well—Copplestone, we'd better meet in the morning at Petherton's. You be there at ten o'clock, and I'll get Sir Cresswell Oliver to be there, too."
Copplestone betook himself to his rooms in Jermyn Street; it seemed an age—several ages—since he had last seen the familiar things in them. During the few days which had elapsed since his hurried setting-off to meet Bassett Oliver so many things had happened that he felt as if he had lived a week in a totally different world. He had met death, and mystery, and what appeared to be sure evidence of deceit and cunning and perhaps worse—fraud and crime blacker than fraud. But he had also met Audrey Greyle. And it was only natural that he thought more about her than of the strange atmosphere of mystery which wrapped itself around Scarhaven. She, at any rate, was good to think upon, and he thought much as he looked over the letters that had accumulated, changed his clothes, and made ready to go and dine at his club, Already he was counting the hours which must elapse before he would go back to her.
Nevertheless, Copplestone's mind was not entirely absorbed by this pleasant subject; the events of the day and of the arrival in London kept presenting themselves. And coming across a fellow club-member whom he knew for a thorough man about town, he suddenly plumped him with a question.
"I say!" he said. "Do you know the Fragonard Club?"
"Of course!" replied the other man. "Don't you?"
"Never even heard of it till this evening," said Copplestone. "What is it?"
"Mixed lot!" answered his companion. "Theatrical and music-hall folk—men and women—both. Lively spot—sometimes. Like to have a look in when they have one of their nights?"
"Very much," assented Copplestone. "Are you a member?"
"No, but I know several men who are members," said the other. "I'll fix it all right. Worth going to when they've what they call a house-dinner—Sunday night, of course."
"Thanks," said Copplestone. "I suppose membership of that's confined to the profession, eh?"
"Strictly," replied his friend. "But they ain't at all particular about their guests—you'll meet all sorts of people there, from judges to jockeys, and millionairesses to milliners."
Copplestone was still wondering what the Squire of Scarhaven could have to do with the Fragonard Club when he went to Mr. Petherton's office the next morning. He was late for the appointment which Gilling had made, and when he arrived Gilling had already reported all that had taken place the day before to the solicitor and to Sir Cresswell Oliver. And on that Copplestone produced the papers entrusted to him by Mr. Dennie and they all compared the handwritings afresh.
"There is certainly something wrong, somewhere," remarked Petherton, after a time. "However, we are in a position to begin a systematic inquiry. Here," he went on, drawing a paper from his desk, "is a cablegram which arrived first thing this morning from New York—from an agent who has been making a search for me in the shipping lists. This is what he says: 'Marston Greyle, St. Louis, Missouri, booked first-class passenger from New York to Falmouth, England, by S.S. Araconda, September 28th, 1912.' There—that's something definite. And the next thing," concluded the old lawyer, with a shrewd glance at Sir Cresswell, "is to find out if the Marston Greyle who landed at Falmouth is the same man whom we have recently seen!"
CHAPTER XVI
IN TOUCH WITH THE MISSING
Sir Cresswell Oliver took the cablegram from Petherton and read it over slowly, muttering the precise and plain wording to himself.
"Don't you think, Petherton, that we had better get a clear notion of our exact bearings?" he said as he laid it back on the solicitor's desk. "Seems to me that the time's come when we ought to know exactly where we are. As I understand it, the case is this—rightly or wrongly we suspect the present holder of the Scarhaven estates. We suspect that he is not the rightful owner—that, in short, he is no more the real Marston Greyle than you are. We think that he's an impostor—posing as Marston Greyle. Other people—Mrs. Valentine Greyle, for example—evidently think so, too. Am I right?"
"Quite!" responded Petherton. "That's our position—exactly."
"Then—in that case, what I want to get at is this," continued Sir Cresswell. "How does this relate to my brother's death? What's the connection? That—to me at any rate—is the first thing of importance. Of course I have a theory. This, that the impostor did see my brother last Sunday afternoon. That he knew that my brother would at once know that he, the impostor, was not the real Marston Greyle, and that the discovery would lead to detection. And therefore he put him out of the way. He might accompany him to the top of the tower and fling him down. It's possible. Do you follow me?"
"Precisely," replied Petherton. "I, too, incline to that notion, though I've worked it out in a different fashion. My reconstruction of what took place at Scarhaven Keep is as follows—I think that Bassett Oliver met the Squire—we'll call this man that for the sake of clearness—when he entered the ruins. He probably introduced himself and mentioned that he had met a Marston Greyle in America. Then the Squire saw the probabilities of detection—and what subsequently took place was most likely what you suggest. It may have been that the Squire recognized Bassett Oliver, and knew that he'd met Marston Greyle; it may have been that he didn't know him and didn't know anything until Bassett Oliver enlightened him. But—either way—I firmly believe that Bassett Oliver came to his death by violence—that he was murdered. So—there's the case in a nutshell! Murdered!—to keep his tongue still."
"What's to be done, then?" asked Sir Cresswell as Petherton tapped the cablegram.
"The first thing," he answered, "is to make use of this. We now know that the real Marston Greyle—who certainly did live in St. Louis, where his father had settled—left New York for England to take up his inheritance, on September 28th, 1912, and booked a passage to Falmouth. He would land at Falmouth from the Araconda about October 5th. Probably there is some trace of him at Falmouth. He no doubt stayed a night there. Anyway, somebody must go to Falmouth and make inquiries. You'd better go, Gilling, and at once. While you're away your partner had better resume his search for the man we know as the Squire. You've two good clues—the fact that he visited the Fragonard Club and that particular tobacconist's shop. Urge Swallow to do his best—the man must be kept in sight. See to both these things immediately."
"Swallow is at work already," replied Gilling. "He's got good help, too, and his failure yesterday has put him on his mettle. As for me, I'll go to Falmouth by the next express. Let me have that cablegram."
"I'll go with you," said Copplestone. "I may be of some use—and I'm interested. But," he paused and looked questioningly at the old solicitor. "What about the other news we brought you?" he asked. "About this sale of the estate, you know? If this man is an impostor—"
"Leave that to me," replied Petherton, with a shrewd glance at Sir Cresswell. "I know the Greyle family solicitors—highly respectable people—only a few doors away, in fact—and I'm going round to have a quiet little chat with them in a few minutes. There will be no sale! Leave me to deal with that matter—and if you young men are going to Falmouth, off you go!"
It was late that night when Copplestone and Gilling arrived at this far-off Cornish seaport, and nothing could be done until the following morning. To Copplestone it seemed as if they were in for a difficult task. Over twelve months had elapsed since the real Marston Greyle left America for England; he might not have stayed in Falmouth, might not have held any conversation with anybody there who would recollect him! how were they going to trace him? But Gilling—now free of his clerical attire and presenting himself as a smart young man of the professional classes type—was quick to explain that system, accurate and definite system, would expedite matters.
"We know the approximate date on which the Araconda would touch here," he said as they breakfasted together. "As things go, it would be from October 4th to 6th, according to the quickness of her run across the Atlantic. Very well—if Marston Greyle stayed here, he'd have to stay at some hotel. Accordingly, we visit all the Falmouth hotels and examine their registers of that date—first week of October, 1912. If we find his name—good! We can then go on to make inquiries. If we don't find any trace of him, then we know it's all up—he probably went straight away by train after landing. We'll begin with this hotel first."
There was no record of any Marston Greyle at that hotel, nor at the next half-dozen at which they called. A visit to the shipping office of the line to which the Araconda belonged revealed the fact that she reached Falmouth on October 5th at half-past ten in the evening, and that the name of Marston Greyle was on the list of first-class passengers. Gilling left the office in cheery mood.
"That simplifies matters," he said. "As the Araconda reached here late in the evening, the passengers who landed from her would be almost certain to stay the night in Falmouth. So we've only to resume our round of these hotels in order to hit something pertinent. This is plain and easy work, Copplestone—no corners in it. We'll strike oil before noon."
They struck oil at the very next hotel they called at—an old-fashioned house in close proximity to the harbour. There was a communicative landlord there who evidently possessed and was proud of a retentive memory, and he no sooner heard the reason of Gilling's call upon him than he bustled into activity, and produced the register of the previous year.
"But I remember the young gentleman you're asking about," he remarked, as he took the book from a safe and laid it open on the table in his private room. "Not a common name, is it? He came here about eleven o'clock of the night you've mentioned—there you are!—there's the entry. And there—higher up—is the name of the man who came to meet him. He came the day before—to be here when the Araconda got in."
The two visitors, bending over the book, mutually nudged each other as their eyes encountered the signatures on the open page. There, in the handwriting of the letters which Mr. Dennie had so fortunately preserved, was the name Marston Greyle. But it was not the sight of that which surprised them; they had expected to see it. What made them both thrill with the joy of an unexpected discovery was the sight of the signature inserted some lines above it, under date October 4th. Lest they should exhibit that joy before the landlord, they mutually stuck their elbows into each other and immediately affected the unconcern of indifference.
But there the signature was—Peter Chatfield. Peter Chatfield!—they both knew that they were entering on a new stage of their quest; that the fact that Chatfield had travelled to Falmouth to meet the new owner of Scarhaven meant much—possibly meant everything.
"Oh!" said Gilling, as steadily as possible. "That gentleman came to meet the other, did he? Just so. Now what sort of man was he?"
"Big, fleshy man—elderly—very solemn in manner and appearance," answered the landlord. "I remember him well. Came in about five o'clock in the afternoon of the 4th just after the London train arrived—and booked a room. He told me he expected to meet a gentleman from New York, and was very fidgety about fixing it up to go off in the tender to the Araconda when she came into the Bay. However, I found out for him that she wouldn't be in until next evening, so of course he settled down to wait. Very quiet, reserved old fellow—never said much."
"Did he go off on the tender next night?" asked Gilling.
"He did—and came back with this other gentleman and his baggage—this Mr. Greyle," answered the landlord. "Mr. Chatfield had booked a room for Mr. Greyle."
"And what sort of man was Mr. Greyle?" inquired Gilling. "That's really the important thing. You've an exceptionally good memory—I can see that. Tell us all you can recollect about him."
"I can recollect plenty," replied the landlord, shaking his head. "As for his looks—a tallish, slightly-built young fellow, between, I should say, twenty-five and twenty-eight. Stooped a good bit. Very dark hair and eyes—eyes a good deal sunken in his face. Very pale—good-looking—good features. But ill—my sakes! he was ill!"
"Ill!" exclaimed Gilling, with a glance at Copplestone. "Really ill!"
"He was that ill," said the landlord, "that me and my wife never expected to see him get up that next morning. We wanted them to have a doctor but Mr. Greyle himself said that it was nothing, but that he had some heart trouble and that the voyage had made it worse. He said that if he took some medicine which he had with him, and a drop of hot brandy-and-water, and got a good night's sleep he'd be all right. And next morning he seemed better, and he got up to breakfast—but my wife said to me that if she'd seen death on a man's face it was on his! She's a bit of a persuasive tongue, has my wife, and when she heard that these two gentlemen were thinking of going a long journey—right away to the far north, it was, I believe—she got 'em to go and see the doctor first, for she felt that Mr. Greyle wasn't fit for the exertion."
"Did they go?" asked Gilling.
"They did! I talked, myself, to the old gentleman," replied the landlord. "And I showed them the way to our own doctor—Dr. Tretheway. And as a result of what he said to them, I heard them decide to break up their journey into stages, as you might term it. They left here for Bristol that afternoon—to stay the night there."
"You're sure of that?—Bristol?" asked Gilling.
"Ought to be," replied the landlord, with laconic assurance. "I went to the station with them and saw them off. They booked to Bristol—anyway—first class."
Gilling looked at his companion.
"I think we'd better see this Dr. Tretheway," he remarked.
Dr. Tretheway, an elderly man of grave manners and benevolent aspect, remembered the visit of Mr. Marston Greyle well enough when he had turned up its date in his case book. He also remembered the visitor's companion, Mr. Chatfield, who seemed unusually anxious and concerned about Mr. Greyle's health.
"And as to that," continued Dr. Tretheway, "I learnt from Mr. Greyle that he had been seriously indisposed for some months before setting out for England. The voyage had been rather a rough one; he had suffered much from sea-sickness, and, in his state of health, that was unfortunate for him. I made a careful examination of him, and I came to the conclusion that he was suffering from a form of myocarditis which was rapidly assuming a very serious complexion. I earnestly advised him to take as much rest as possible, to avoid all unnecessary fatigue and all excitement, and I strongly deprecated his travelling in one journey to the north, whither I learnt he was bound. On my advice, he and Mr. Chatfield decided to break that journey at Bristol, at Birmingham, and at Leeds. By so doing, you see, they would only have a short journey each day, and Mr. Greyle would be able to rest for a long time at a stretch. But—I formed my own conclusions."
"And they were—what?" asked Gilling.
"That he would not live long," said the doctor. "Finding that he was going to the neighbourhood of Norcaster, where there is a most excellent school of medicine, I advised him to get the best specialist he could from there, and to put himself under his treatment. But my impression was that he had already reached a very, very serious stage."
"You think he was then likely to die suddenly?" suggested Gilling.
"It was quite possible. I should not have been surprised to hear of his death," answered Dr. Tretheway. "He was, in short, very ill indeed."
"You never heard anything?" inquired Gilling.
"Nothing at all—though I often wondered. Of course," said the doctor with a smile, "they were only chance visitors—I often have trans-atlantic passengers drop in—and they forget that a physician would sometimes like to know how a case submitted to him in that way has turned out. No, I never heard any more."
"Did they give you any address, either of them?" asked Copplestone, seeing that Gilling had no more to ask.
"No," replied the doctor, "they did not. I knew of course, from what they told me that Mr. Greyle had come off the Araconda the night before, and that he was passing on. No—I only gathered that they were going to the neighbourhood of Norcaster from the fact that Mr. Greyle asked if a journey to that place would be too much for him—he said with a laugh, that over there in the United States a journey of five hundred miles would be considered a mere jaunt! He was very plucky, poor fellow, but—"
Dr. Tretheway ended with a significant shake of the head, and his two visitors left him and went out into the autumn sunlight.
"Copplestone!" said Gilling as they walked away. "That chap—the real Marston Greyle—is dead! That's as certain as that we're alive! And now the next thing is to find out where he died and when. And by George, that's going to be a big job!"
"How are you going to set about it?" asked Copplestone. "It seems as if we were up against a blank wall, now."
"Not at all, my son!" retorted Gilling, cheerfully. "One step at a time—that's the sure thing to go on, in my calling. We've found out a lot here, and quickly, too. And—we know where our next step lies. Bristol! Like looking for needles in a bundle of hay? Not a bit of it. If those two broke their journey at Bristol, they'd have to stop at an hotel. Well, now we'll adjourn to Bristol—bearing in mind that we're on the track of Peter Chatfield!"
CHAPTER XVII
THE OLD PLAYBILL
Gilling's cheerful optimism was the sort of desirable quality that is a good thing to have, but all the optimism in the world is valueless in face of impregnable difficulty. And the difficulty of tracing Chatfield and his sick companion in a city the size of Bristol did indeed seem impregnable when Gilling and Copplestone had been attacking it for twenty-four hours. They had spent a whole day in endeavouring to get news; they had gone in and out of hotels until they were sick of the sight of one; they had made exhaustive inquiries at the railway station and of the cabmen who congregated there; nobody remembered anything at all about a big, heavy-faced man and a man in his company who seemed to be very ill. And on the second night Copplestone intimated plainly that in his opinion they were wasting their time.
"How do we even know that they ever came to Bristol?" he asked, as he and Gilling refreshed themselves with a much needed dinner. "The Falmouth landlord saw Chatfield take tickets for Bristol! That's nothing to go on! Put it to yourself in this way. Greyle may have found even that journey too much for him. They may, in that case, have left the train at Plymouth—or at Exeter—or at Taunton: it would stop at each place. Seems to me we're wasting time here—far better get nearer more tangible things. Chatfield, for instance. Or, go back to town and find out what your friend Swallow has done."
"Swallow," replied Gilling, "has done nothing so far, or I should have heard. Swallow knows exactly where I am, and where I shall be until I give him further notice. Don't be discouraged, my friend—one is often on the very edge of a discovery when one seems to be miles away from it. Give me another day—and if we haven't found out something by tomorrow evening I'll consult with you as to our next step. But I've a plan for tomorrow morning which ought to yield some result."