Scarhaven Keep by J. S. Fletcher (most inspirational books of all time .TXT) 📕

my dear sir!—the whole thing is as plain as a pikestaff. It will be a relief to know that the mystery is now satisfactorily solved."

Outside in the welcome freshness, Copplestone turned to the doctor.

"You say the inquest will be held tomorrow?" he asked. The doctor looked his questioner up and down with an inquiry which signified doubt as to Copplestone's right to demand information.

"In the usual course," he replied stiffly.

"Then his brother, Sir Cresswell Oliver, and his solicitor, Mr. Petherton, must be wired for from London," observed Copplestone, turning to Greyle. "I'll communicate with them at once. I suppose we may go up the tower?" he continued as Greyle nodded his assent. "I'd like to see the stairs and the parapet."

Greyle looked a little doubtful and uneasy.

"Well, I had meant that no one should go up until all this was gone into," he answered. "I don't want any more accidents. You'll be careful?"

"We're both young and agile," responded Copplestone.

"There's no need for alarm. Do you care to go up, Mr. Gilling?"

The pseudo-curate accepted the invitation readily, and he and
Copplestone entered the turret. They had climbed half its height before
Copplestone spoke.

"Well?" he whispered. "What do you think?"

"It may be accident," muttered Gilling. "It—mayn't."

"You think he might have been—what?—thrown down?"

"Might have been caught unawares, and pushed over. Let's see what there is up above, anyway."

The stair in the turret, much worn, but comparatively safe, and lighted by loopholes and arrow-slits, terminated in a low arched doorway, through which egress was afforded to a parapet which ran completely round the inner wall of the Keep. It was in no place more than a yard wide; the balustrading which fenced it in was in some places completely gone, a mere glance was sufficient to show that only a very cool-headed and extremely sure-footed person ought to traverse it. Copplestone contented himself with an inspection from the archway; he looked down and saw at once that a fall from that height must mean sure and swift death: he saw, too, that Greyle had been quite right in saying that the sudden plunge of Oliver's body through the leafy screen far beneath had made little difference to the appearance of that screen as seen from above. And now that he saw everything it seemed to him that the real truth might well lie in one word—accident.

"Coming round this parapet?" asked Gilling, who was looking narrowly about him.

"No!" replied Copplestone. "I can't stand looking down from great heights. It makes my head swim. Are you?"

"Sure!" answered Gilling. He took off his heavy overcoat and handed it to his companion. "Mind holding it?" he asked. "I want to have a good look at the exact spot from which Oliver must have fallen. There's the gap—such as it is, and it doesn't look much from here, does it?—in the green stuff, down below, so he must have been here on the parapet exactly above it. Gad! it's very narrow, and a bit risky, this, when all's said and done!"

Copplestone watched his companion make his way round to the place from which it was only too evident Oliver must have fallen. Gilling went slowly, carefully inspecting every yard of the moss and lichen-covered stones. Once he paused some time and seemed to be examining a part of the parapet with unusual attention. When he reached the precise spot at which he had aimed, he instantly called across to Copplestone.

"There's no doubt about his having fallen from here!" he said. "Some of the masonry on the very edge of this parapet is loose. I could dislodge it with a touch."

"Then be careful," answered Copplestone. "Don't cross that bit!"

But Gilling quietly continued his progress and returned to his companion by the opposite side from which he had set out, having thus accomplished the entire round. He quietly reassumed his overcoat.

"No doubt about the fall," he said as they turned down the stair. "The next thing is—was it accidental?"

"And—as regards that—what's to be done next?" asked Copplestone.

"That's easy. We must go at once and wire for Sir Cresswell and old Petherton," replied Gilling. "It's now four-thirty. If they catch an evening express at King's Cross they'll get here early in the morning. If they like to motor from Norcaster they can get here in the small hours. But—they must be here for that inquest."

Greyle was talking to Chatfield at the foot of the Keep when they got down. The agent turned surlily away, but the Squire looked at both with an unmistakable eagerness.

"There's no doubt whatever that Oliver fell from the parapet," said
Copplestone. "The marks of a fall are there—quite unmistakably."

Greyle nodded, but made no remark, and the two made their way through the still eager crowd and went down to the village post-office. Both were wondering, as they went, about the same thing—the evident anxiety and mental uneasiness of Marston Greyle.

CHAPTER XII GOOD MEN AND TRUE

Copplestone saw little of his bed that night. At seven o'clock in the evening came a telegram from Sir Cresswell Oliver, saying that he and Petherton were leaving at once, would reach Norcaster soon after midnight, and would motor out to Scarhaven immediately on arrival. Copplestone made all arrangements for their reception, and after snatching a couple of hours' sleep was up to receive them. By two o'clock in the morning Sir Cresswell and the old solicitor and Gilling—smuggled into their sitting-room—had heard all he had to tell about Zachary Spurge and his story.

"We must have that fellow at the inquest," said Petherton. "At any cost we must have him! That's flat!"

"You think it wise?" asked Sir Cresswell. "Won't it be a bit previous?
Wouldn't it be better to wait until we know more?"

"No—we must have his evidence," declared Petherton. "It will serve as an opening. Besides, this inquest will have to be adjourned—I shall ask for that. No—Spurge must be produced."

"If Spurge comes into Scarhaven," observed Copplestone, "he'll be promptly collared by the police. They want him for poaching."

"Then they can get him when the proceedings are over," retorted the old lawyer, dryly. "They daren't touch him while he's giving evidence and that's all we want. Perhaps he won't come?—Oh he'll come all right if we make it worth his while. A month in Norcaster gaol will mean nothing to him if he knows there's a chance of that reward or something substantial out of it at the end of his sentence. You must go out to this retreat of his and bring him in—we must have him. 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.

Spurge, blinking at his visitor in the pale light of a guttering candle, shook his head.

"I'll come, guv'nor," he said. "Of course. I'll come—and I'll trust to luck to get away, and it don't matter a deal if the luck's agen me—I've done a month in Norcaster before today, and it ain't half a bad rest-cure, if you only take it that way. But guv'nor—that old lawyer's making a mistake! You didn't ought to have my bit of evidence at this stage. It's too soon. You want to work up the case a bit. There's such a thing, guv'nor, in this world as being a bit previous. This here's too previous—you want to be surer of your facts. Because you know, guv'nor nobody'll believe my word agen Squire Greyle's. Guv'nor—this here inquest'll be naught but a blooming farce! Mark me! You ain't a native o' this part—I am. D'you think as how a Scarhaven jury's going to say aught agen its own Squire and landlord? Not it! I say, guv'nor—all a blooming farce! Mark my words!"

"All the same, you'll come?" asked Copplestone, who was secretly of
Spurge's opinion. "You won't lose by it in the long run."

"Oh, I'll be there," responded Spurge. "Out of curiosity, if for nothing else. You mayn't see me at first, but, let the lawyer from London call my name out, and Zachary Spurge'll step forward."

There was abundant cover for Zachary Spurge and for half-a-dozen like him in the village school-house when the inquest was opened at ten o'clock that morning. It seemed to Copplestone that it would have been a physical impossibility to crowd more people within the walls than had assembled when the coroner, a local solicitor, who was obviously testy, irritable, self-important and afflicted with deafness, took his seat and looked sourly on the crowd of faces. Copplestone had already seen him in conversation with the village doctor, the village police, Chatfield, and Marston Greyle's solicitor, and he began to see the force of Spurge's shrewd remarks. What, of course, was most desired was secrecy and privacy—the Scarhaven powers had no wish that the attention of all the world should be drawn to this quiet place. But outsiders were there in plenty. Stafford and several members of Bassett Oliver's company had motored over from Norcaster and had succeeded in getting good places: there were half-a-dozen reporters from Norcaster and Northborough, and plain-clothes police from both towns. And there, too, were all the principal folk of the neighbourhood, and Mrs. Greyle and her daughter, and, a little distance from Audrey, alert and keenly interested, was Addie Chatfield.

It needed very little insight or observation on the part of an intelligent spectator to see how things were going. The twelve good men and true, required under the provisions of the old statute to form a jury, were all of them either Scarhaven tradesmen or Scarhaven householders or labourers on the estate. Their countenances, as they took their seats under the foremanship of a man whom Copplestone already knew as Chatfield's under-steward, showed plainly that they regarded the whole thing as a necessary formality and that they were already prepared with a verdict. This impression was strengthened by the coroner's opening remarks. In his opinion, the whole affair—to which he did not even refer as unfortunate—was easily and quickly explained and understood. The deceased had come to the village to look round—on a Sunday be it observed—had somehow obtained access to the Keep, where, the ruins being strictly private and not open to the public on any consideration on Sunday, he had no right to be; had indulged his curiosity by climbing to the top of the ancient tower and had paid for it by falling down from that terrible height and breaking his neck. All that was necessary was for them to hear evidence bearing out these facts—after which they would return a verdict in accordance with what they had heard. Very fortunately the facts were plain, and it would not be necessary to call many witnesses.

Sir Cresswell Oliver turned to Copplestone who sat at one side of him, while Petherton sat on the other.

"I don't know if you notice that Greyle isn't here?" he whispered grimly.
"In my opinion, he doesn't intend to show! We'll see!"

Certainly the Squire was not in the place. And there were soon signs that those who conducted the proceedings evidently did not consider his presence necessary. The witnesses were few; their examinations was perfunctory; they were out of the extemporised witness-box as soon as they were in it. Sir Cresswell Oliver—to give formal identification. Mrs. Wooler—to prove that the deceased man came to her house. One of the foremen of the estate—to prove the great care with which the Squire had searched for traces of the missing man. One of the estate labourers—to prove the actual finding of the body. The doctor—to prove, beyond all doubt, that the deceased had broken his neck.

The coroner, an elderly man, obviously well satisfied with the trend of things, took off his spectacles and turned to the jury.

"You have heard everything there is to be heard, gentlemen," said he. "As I remarked at the opening of this inquest, the case is one of great simplicity. You will have no difficulty in deciding that the deceased came to his death by accident—as to the exact wording of your verdict, you had better put it in this way:—that the deceased Bassett Oliver died as the result—"

Petherton, who, noticing the coroner's deafness, had contrived to seat himself as close to his chair of office