J. S. Fletcher

“ Dennie laughed quietly.
"Aye, aye!" he said. "But—don't you think we folk of the profession are a little bit apt to magnify our own importance? You say 'Bless me, how could anybody ever forget an introduction to Bassett Oliver!' But we must remember that to some people even a famous actor is of no more importance than—shall we say a respectable grocer? Marston Greyle may be one of those people—it's quite possible he may have been introduced, quite casually, to Oliver at some club, or gathering, something-or-other, over there and have quite forgotten all about it. ”

“ CHAPTER XI BENEATH THE BRAMBLES By the time Copplestone and the pseudo-curate had reached the plateau of open ground surrounding the ruins it seemed as if half the population of Scarhaven had gathered there. Men, women and children were swarming about the door in the curtain wall, all manifesting an eager desire to pass through. But the door was strictly guarded. Chatfield, armed with a new oak cudgel stood there, masterful and lowering; behind him were several estate labourers, all keeping the people back. ”

“ The assemblage, jurymen included, broke into derisive laughter as Spurge suddenly appeared from the most densely packed corner of the room, and it was at once evident to Copplestone that whatever the poacher might say, no one there would attach any importance to it. The laughter continued and increased while Spurge was under examination. Petherton appealed to the coroner; the coroner affected not to hear. And once more the foreman of the jury interrupted.
"We don't want to hear no more o' this stuff!" he said. "It's an insult to us to put a fellow like that before us. ”

“ Now, do you think you could manage to stay where you are for a week or two?"
"Here?" exclaimed Copplestone.
"This seems very comfortable," said Sir Cresswell, looking round. "The landlady is a nice, motherly person; she gave me a very well-cooked lunch; this is a quiet room in which to do your writing, eh?"
"Of course I can stay here," answered Copplestone, who was a good deal bewildered. "But—mayn't I know why—and in what capacity?"
"Just to keep your eyes and your ears open," said Sir Cresswell. "Don't seem to make inquiries—in fact, don't make any inquiry—do nothing. ”

“ 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. ”

“ You make me feel right down poorly, Mr. Vickers, to say such! It's worse than a bad dream, Mr. Vickers—no, sir, no, surely you're mistaken!"
"Bet you a fiver to a halfpenny it's the Pike," retorted Vickers. "I know her lines. Besides she's heading straight here. Copplestone!" he cried, turning to the advancing couple. "Do you know, I believe that's the Pike!"
Copplestone gave Audrey's elbow a gentle squeeze.
"Look at old Chatfield!" he whispered. "By gad!—look at him. Yes," he called out loudly, "We know it's the Pike—we saw that from the top of the cliffs. She's coming straight in." ”

“ They are close and reserved—no people could keep secrets better. For all one knows, somebody in this village may know something, and may at present feel it wisest to keep the knowledge to himself. But if money—what would seem a lot of money—comes into question—ah!"
"Especially if the information could be given in secret," said Audrey. "Scarhaven folk love secrecy—it's the salt of life to them: it's in their very blood. Chatfield is an excellent specimen. He'll watch you as a cat watches a mouse when he finds you're going to stay here."
"I shall be quite open," said Copplestone. ”

“ Better go very early in the morning.
"I'll go now," said Copplestone. "It's as easy to go by night as by day." He left the other three to seek their beds, and himself slipped quietly out of the hotel by one of the ground-floor windows and set off in a pitch-black night to seek Spurge in his lair. And after sundry barkings of his shins against the rocks and scratchings of his hands and cheeks by the undergrowth of Hobkin's Hole he rounded the poacher out and delivered his message. ”

“ Marston Greyle, the present owner of Scarhaven, has offered to sell his estate to Lord Altmore? But—is not the estate entailed?"
"No!" replied Mrs. Greyle. "It is not."
Mr. Dennie's face fell—unmistakably. He took another pinch of snuff and shook his head.
"Then in that case," he said dryly, "all the lawyers in the world can't help. It's his—absolutely—and he can do what he pleases with it. Five hundred years, you say? Remarkable!—that a man should want to sell land his forefathers have walked over for half a thousand years! ”

“ Wooler entered with a countenance which betokened mystery in every feature.
"There's the estate agent, Mr. Chatfield, outside, very anxious to have a word with you about this affair," she said. "Would you be for having him in? He's the sort of man," she went on, sinking her tones to a whisper, "who must know everything that's going on, and, of course, having the position he has, he might be useful. Mr. Peter Chatfield, Mr. Greyle's agent, and his uncle's before him—that's who he is—Peeping Peter, they call him hereabouts, because he's fond of knowing everybody's business." ”

“ Who's on board this vessel? You know what I mean. Is the man who calls himself Squire of Scarhaven here?"
Andrius shook his head quietly and gave his questioner a shrewd glance.
"Mr. Vickers," he said meaningly, "I know you! You are a lawyer—though a young one. Lawyers are guarded in their speech. Now—we are alone—we four. No one can hear anything we say. Tell me—is that right what you said to me on deck, that the man who has called himself Marston Greyle is not so at all?"
"Absolutely right," replied Vickers.
"An impostor?" demanded Andrius. ”

“ It was, however, well past the middle of the afternoon when these two returned to Scarhaven, very well satisfied with themselves. They had found plenty to talk about without falling back on Marston Greyle, or Peter Chatfield, or the event of the morning, and Copplestone suddenly remembered, almost with compunction, that he had been so engrossed in his companion that he had almost forgotten the Oliver mystery. But that was sharply recalled to him as he entered the "Admiral's Arms." Mrs. Wooler came forward from her parlour with a mysterious smile on her good-looking face. ”

“ Along the side of this creek there was just as much crowding and confusion as on the wider quays; men were going in and out of the sheds and lofts; men were busy about the sides of the small craft. And again the feeling of uselessness came over Copplestone.
"What's the good of all this, Spurge!" he exclaimed testily. "You'll never—"
Spurge suddenly laid a grip on his companion's elbow and twisted him aside into a narrow entry between the sheds.
"That's the good!" he answered in an exulting voice. "Look there, guv'nor! Look at that North Sea tug—that one, lying out there! ”

“ But he had never met Bassett Oliver, and knew nothing of his ways; he only began to comprehend matters when Rothwell turned to Stafford with an air of decision.
"Look here!" he said. "You'd better go and make inquiry at Northborough. See if you can track him. Something must be wrong—perhaps seriously wrong. You don't quite understand, do you, Mr. Copplestone?" he went on, giving the younger man a sharp glance. "You see, we know Mr. Oliver so well—we've both been with him a good many years. He's a model of system, regularity, punctuality, and all the rest of it. ”

“ Marston Greyle find to do with himself in this place?" asked Copplestone, turning the conversation. "Can't be very lively for him if he's a man of any activity."
"Oh, I don't know," replied Mrs. Wooler. "I think he's a good deal like his uncle, the last squire—he certainly never goes anywhere, except out to sea in his yacht. He shoots a bit, and fishes a bit, and so on, and spends a lot of time with Peeping Peter—he's a widower, is Chatfield, and lives alone, except when his daughter runs down to see him. And that daughter, bye-the-bye, Mr. Copplestone, is on the stage." ”

“ Copplestone looked hard at Spurge; Spurge returned the stare, and nodded two or three times.
"Gospel truth!" he said. "I kept where I was—I'd reasons of my own. May be eight minutes or so—certainly not ten—after Bassett Oliver walked in there, Squire Greyle walked out. In a hurry, guv'nor. He come out quick. He looked a bit queer. Dazed, like. You know how quick a man can think, guv'nor, under certain circumstances? I thought quicker'n lightning. I says to myself 'Squire's seen somebody or something he hadn't no taste for!' Why, you could read it on his face! plain as print. ”

“ And with a shriek that set all the echoes ringing, the sea-birds screaming, and made Audrey clap her hands to her ears, Chatfield threw up his arms and dropped heavily on the sands.
"That's sheer murder!" exclaimed Vickers, as the yachtsmen came running up. "You'll answer for that, you know. Unless you mean to murder all of us."
The leader, a smiling-faced fellow, touched his cap respectfully, and grinned from ear to ear.
"Lor' bless you, sir, we shot twenty feet over his head!" he said. "He's too precious to shoot: they want him badly on board there. ”

“ We are all friends—we have a common cause—justice! It may be that justice demands our best endeavours not only as regards our deceased friend, Bassett Oliver, but in the interests of—this young lady. So—"
"I wish you wouldn't, Mr. Dennie!" exclaimed Audrey. "I don't like this at all. Please don't!"
She turned, almost instinctively, to seek Copplestone's aid in repressing the old man. But Copplestone was standing by the window, staring moodily at the wind-swept quay beyond the garden, and Mr. Dennie waved his snuff-box and went on.
"An old man's privilege!" ”

“ Once there the girl laughed.
"Now there'll be another row!" she said. "Between master and man this time."
"I think not!" observed Copplestone, with unusual emphasis. "For the master is afraid of the man."
"Ah!—but which is master and which is man?" asked Audrey in a low voice.
Copplestone stopped and looked narrowly at her.
"Oh?" he said quietly, "so you've seen that?"
"Does it need much observation?" she replied. "My mother and I have known for some time that Marston Greyle is entirely under Peter Chatfield's thumb. He daren't do anything—save by Chatfield's permission." ”

“ He's met by one person only—his agent. He dies next day. The agent buries him, under a false name, takes his effects and papers, gets some accomplice to personate him, introduces that accomplice to everybody as the real man—and there you are! Oh, Chatfield knew what he was doing! Who on earth, wandering in this cemetery, would ever connect Mark Grey with Marston Greyle?"
"Just so—but there was one danger-spot which must have given Chatfield and his accomplices a good many uneasy hours," answered Copplestone. ”

“ He'll have been in to every public there is in Scarhaven, repeating of it. And a very, very serious complexion, of course, could be put on them words, sir."
"How?" asked Copplestone.
"Put it to yourself, sir," replied Chatfield. "The unfortunate man comes here, tells Ewbank he knew Mr. Greyle in that far-away land, says he'll call on him, is seen going towards the big house—and is never seen no more! Why, sir, what does human nature—which is wicked—say?"
"What does your human nature—which I'm sure is not wicked, say?" suggested Copplestone. ”

“ Why man, you couldn't be more afraid if you'd murdered somebody! What do you suppose these people want? You, of course. And you can't escape—if they want you, they'll search the island till they get you. You've been deceiving us, Chatfield—there's something you've kept back. Now, what is it? What have they come back for?"
"Yes, Mr. Chatfield, what has the Pike come back for?" repeated Audrey, coming nearer. "Come now—hadn't you better tell?"
"It is the Pike," remarked Copplestone. "Look there! And they're going to send in a boat. Better be quick, Chatfield." ”

“ For one doesn't easily forget a man of reputation—and Mr. Oliver was that of course!—and on the other hand, Marston Greyle is not a common name. Did you ever hear the name before, Mr. Copplestone?"
"Only in connection with your own family—I have read of the Greyles of Scarhaven," replied Copplestone. "But, after all, I suppose it is not confined to your family. There may be Greyles in America. Well—it's all very queer," he went on, as he rose to leave. "May I come in tomorrow and tell you what's being done?—I'm sure Stafford means to leave no stone unturned—he's tremendously keen about it." ”

“ What's the use of worrying? Do you know," she went on, lowering her voice and drawing nearer to him, "I believe something's going to come of all this—something that'll clear matters up once and for all."
"Why?" asked Copplestone, wonderingly. "What makes you think that?"
"Don't know—instinct, intuitiveness, perhaps," she answered. "Besides—I'm dead certain we're not the only people—I don't mean crew and Captain—aboard the Pike. I believe there's somebody else. There's some mystery, anyway. Keep that to yourself," she said as Andrius and Vickers appeared from below. ”