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

by something very like satisfaction, and she nodded a ready acquiescence in Copplestone's proposal.

"By all means!" she responded. "Bring Mr. Gilling in at once."

Copplestone hurried out into the garden and signalled to the pseudo-curate, who came hurrying across from the quay. One glance at him showed Copplestone that something had happened.

"Gad!—I thought I should never attract your attention!" said Gilling hastily. "Been making eyes at you for ten minutes. I say—Greyle's off!"

"Off!" exclaimed Copplestone. "How do you mean—off?"

"Left Scarhaven, anyhow—for London," replied Gilling. "An hour ago I happened to be at the station, buying a paper, when he drove up—luggage and man with him, so I knew he was off for some time. And I took good care to dodge round by the booking-office when the man took the tickets. King's Cross. So that's all right, for the time being."

"How do you mean—all right?" asked Copplestone. "I thought you were to keep him in sight?"

"All right," repeated Gilling. "I have more eyes than these, my boy! I've a particularly smart partner in London—name of Swallow—and he and I have a cypher code. So soon as the gentleman had left, I repaired to the nearest post office and wired a code message to Swallow. Swallow will meet that train when it strikes King's Cross. And it doesn't matter if Greyle hides himself in one of the spikes on top of the Monument or inside the lion house at the Zoo—Swallow will be there! No man ever got away from Swallow—once Swallow had set eyes on him."

Copplestone looked, listened, and laughed.

"Professional pride!" he said. "All right. I want you to come in here with me—to Mrs. Greyle's. Something's happened here, too. And of such a serious nature that I've taken the liberty of telling them who and what you really are. You'll forgive me when you hear what it is that we've learnt here this morning."

Gilling had looked rather doubtful at Copplestone's announcement, but he immediately turned towards the cottage.

"Oh, well!" he said good-naturedly. "I'm sure you wouldn't have told if you hadn't felt there was good reason. What is this fresh news?—something about—him?"

"Very much about him," answered Copplestone. "Come in."

He himself, at Mrs. Greyle's request, gave Gilling a brief account of Mr. Dennie's revelations, the old actor supplementing it with a shrewd remark or two. And then all four turned to Gilling as to an expert in these matters.

"Queer!" observed Gilling. "Decidedly queer! There may be some explanation, you know: I've known stranger things than that turn out to be perfectly straight and plain when they were gone into. But—putting all the facts together—I don't think there's much doubt that there's something considerably wrong in this case. I should like to repeat it to my principals—I must go up to town in any event this afternoon. Better let me have all those documents, Mr. Dennie—I'll give you a proper receipt for them. There's something very valuable in them, anyhow."

"What?" asked Copplestone.

"The address in St. Louis from which that Marston Greyle wrote to Bassett Oliver." replied Gilling. "We can communicate with that address—at once. We may learn something there. But," he went on, turning to Mrs. Greyle, "I want to learn something here—and now. I want to know where and under what circumstances the Squire came to Scarhaven. You were here then, of course, Mrs. Greyle? You can tell me?"

"He came very quietly," replied Mrs. Greyle. "Nobody in Scarhaven—unless it was Peter Chatfield—knew of his coming. In fact, nobody in these parts, at any rate—knew he was in England. The family solicitors in London may have known. But nothing was ever said or written to me, though my daughter, failing this man, is the next in succession."

"I do wish you'd leave all that out, mother!" exclaimed Audrey. "I don't like it."

"Whether you like it or not, it's the fact," said Mrs. Greyle imperturbably, "and it can't be left out. Well, as I say, no one knew the Squire had come to England, until one day Chatfield calmly walked down the quay with him, introducing him right and left. He brought him here."

"Ah!" said Gilling. "That's interesting. Now I wonder if you found out if he was well up in the family history?"

"Not then, but afterwards," answered Mrs. Greyle. "He is particularly well up in the Greyle records—suspiciously well up."

"Why suspiciously?" asked Cobblestone.

"He knows more—in a sort of antiquarian and historian fashion—than you'd suppose a young man of his age would," said Mrs. Greyle. "He gives you the impression of having read it up—studied it deeply. And—his usual tastes don't lie in that direction."

"Ah!" observed Mr. Dennie, musingly. "Bad sign, ma'am,—bad sign! Looks as if he had been—shall we say put up to overstudying his part. That's possible! I have known men who were so anxious to be what one calls letter-perfect, Mr. Copplestone, that though they knew their parts, they didn't know how to play them. Fact, sir!"

While the old actor was chuckling over this reminiscence, Gilling turned quietly to Mrs. Greyle.

"I think you suspect this man?" he said.

"Frankly—yes," replied Mrs. Greyle. "I always have done, though I have said so little—"

"Mother!" interrupted Audrey. "Is it really worth while saying so much now! After all, we know nothing, and if this is all mere supposition—however," she broke off, rising and going away from the group, "perhaps I had better say nothing."

Copplestone too rose and followed her into the window recess.

"I say!" he said entreatingly. "I hope you don't think me interfering? I assure you—"

"You!" she exclaimed. "Oh, no!—of course. I think you're anxious to clear things up about Mr. Oliver. But I don't want my mother dragged into it—for a simple reason. We've got to live here—and Chatfield is a vindictive man."

"You're frightened of him?" said Copplestone incredulously. "You!"

"Not for myself," she answered, giving him a warning look and glancing apprehensively at Mrs. Greyle, who was talking eagerly to Mr. Dennie and Gilling. "But my mother is not as strong as she looks and it would be a blow to her to leave this place and we are the Squire's tenants, and therefore at Chatfield's mercy. And you know that Chatfield does as he likes! Now do you understand?"

"It maddens me to think that you should be at Chatfield's mercy!" muttered Copplestone. "But do you really mean to say that if—if Chatfield thought you—that is, your mother—were mixed up in anything relating to the clearing up of this affair he would—"

"Drive us out without mercy," replied Audrey. "That's dead certain."

"And that your cousin would let him?" exclaimed Copplestone.
"Surely not!"

"I don't think the Squire has any control over Chatfield," she answered.
"You have seen them together."

"If that's so," said Copplestone, "I shall begin to think there is something queer about the Squire in the way your mother suggests. It looks as if Chatfield had a hold on him. And in that case—"

He suddenly broke off as a smart automobile drove up to the cottage door and set down a tall, distinguished-looking man who after a glance at the little house walked quickly up the garden. Audrey's face showed surprise.

"Mother!" she said, turning to Mrs. Greyle. "There's Lord Altmore here!
He must want you. Or shall I go?"

Mrs. Greyle quitted the room hastily. The others heard her welcome the visitor, lead him up the tiny hall; they heard a door shut. Audrey looked at Copplestone.

"You've heard of Lord Altmore, haven't you?" she said. "He's our biggest man in these parts—he owns all the country at the back, mountains, valleys, everything. The Greyle land shuts him off from the sea. In the old days, Greyles and Altmores used to fight over their boundaries, and—"

Mrs. Greyle suddenly showed herself again and looked at her daughter.

"Will you come here, Audrey?" she said. "You gentlemen will excuse both of us for a few minutes?"

Mother and daughter went away, and the two young men drew up their chairs to the table at which Mr. Dennie sat and exchanged views with him on the curious situation. Half-an-hour went by; then steps and voices were heard in the hall and the garden; Mrs. Greyle and Audrey were seeing their visitor out to his car. In a few minutes the car sped away, and they came back to the parlour. One glance at their faces showed Gilling that some new development had cropped up and he nudged Copplestone.

"Here is remarkable news!" said Mrs. Greyle as she went back to her chair. "Lord Altmore called to tell me of something that he thought I ought to know. It is almost unbelievable, yet it is a fact. Marston Greyle—if he is Marston Greyle!—has offered to sell Lord Altmore the entire Scarhaven estate, by private treaty. Imagine it!—the estate which has belonged to the Greyles for five hundred years!"

CHAPTER XV THE CABLEGRAM FROM NEW YORK

The two younger men received this announcement with no more than looks of astonished inquiry, but the elder one coughed significantly, had further recourse to his snuff-box and turned to Mrs. Greyle with a knowing glance.

"My dear lady!" he said impressively. "Now this is a matter in which I believe I can be of service—real service! You may have forgotten the fact—it is all so long ago—and perhaps I never mentioned it in the old days—but the truth is that before I went on the stage, I was in the law. The fact is, I am a duly and fully qualified solicitor—though," he added, with a dry chuckle, "it is a good five and twenty years since I paid the six pounds for the necessary annual certificate. But I have not forgotten my law—or some of it—and no doubt I can furbish up a little more, if necessary. You say that Mr. 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! Extraordinary!"

"Did Lord Altmore say if any reason had been given him as to why Mr.
Greyle wished to sell?" asked Gilling.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Greyle, who was obviously greatly upset by the recent news. "He did. Mr. Greyle gave as his reason that the north does not suit him, and that he wishes to buy an estate in the south of England. He approached Lord Altmore first because it is well-known that the Altmores have always been anxious to extend their own borders to the coast."

"Does Lord Altmore want to buy?" asked Gilling.

"It is very evident that he would be quite willing to buy," said
Mrs. Greyle.

"What made him come to you," continued Gilling. "He must have had some reason?"

"He had a reason," Mrs. Greyle answered, with a glance at Audrey. "He knows the family history, of course—he is very well aware that my daughter is at present the heir apparent. He therefore thought we ought to know of this offer. But that is not quite all. Lord Altmore has, of course, read the accounts of the inquest in this morning's paper. Also his steward was present at the inquest. And from what he has read, and from what his steward told him, Lord Altmore thinks there is something wrong—he thinks, for instance, that Marston Greyle should explain this mystery about the meeting with Bassett Oliver in America. At any rate, he will go no further in any negotiations until that mystery is properly cleared up. Shall I tell you what Lord Altmore said on that point? He said—"

"Is it worth while, mother?" interrupted Audrey. "It was only his opinion."

"It is worth while—amongst ourselves—" insisted Mrs. Greyle. "Why not? Lord Altmore said—in so many words—'I have a sort of uneasy feeling, after reading the evidence at that inquest, and hearing what my steward's impressions were, that this man calling himself Marston Greyle may not be Marston Greyle at all and I shall want good proof that he is before I even consider the proposal he has made to me.' There! So—what's to be done?"

"The law, ma'am," observed Mr. Dennie, solemnly, "the law must step in.
You must get an injunction, ma'am, to prevent Mr. Marston Greyle from
dealing with the property until his own title to it has been established.
That,