Scarhaven Keep by J. S. Fletcher (best value ebook reader TXT) 📕

That was all very suspicious, to say the least of it, taken in relation to Oliver’s undoubted disappearance⁠—but it was only suspicion; it afforded no direct proof. However, it gave material for a report to Sir Cresswell Oliver, and he determined to write out an account of his dealings with Spurge that afternoon, and to send it off at once by registered letter.

He was busily engaged in this task when Mrs. Wooler came into his sitting room to lay the table for his lunch. Copplestone saw at once that she was full of news.

“Never rains but it pours!” she said with a smile. “Though, to be sure, it isn’t a very heavy shower. I’ve got another visitor now, Mr. Copplestone.”

“Oh?” responded Copplestone, not particularly interested. “Indeed!”

“A young clergyman from London⁠—the Reverend Gilling,” continued the landlady. “Been ill for some time, and his doctor has recommended him to try the north coast air. So he came down here, and he’s going to stop awhile to see how it suits him.”

“I should have thought the air of the north coast was a bit strong for an invalid,” remarked Copplestone. “I’m not delicate, but I find it quite strong enough for me.”

“I daresay it’s a case of kill or cure,” replied Mrs. Wooler. “Chest complaint, I should think. Not that the young gentleman looks particularly delicate, either, and he tells me that he’s a very good appetite and that his doctor says he’s to live well and to eat as much as ever he can.”

Copplestone got a view of his fellow-visitor that afternoon in the hall of the inn, and agreed with the landlady that he showed no evident signs of delicacy of health. He was a good type of the conventional curate, with a rather pale, good-humoured face set between his round collar and wide brimmed hat, and he glanced at Copplestone with friendly curiosity and something of a question in his eyes. And Copplestone, out of good neighbourliness, stopped and spoke to him.

“Mrs. Wooler tells me you’re come here to pick up,” he remarked. “Pretty strong air round this quarter of the globe!”

“Oh, that’s all right!” said the new arrival. “The air of Scarhaven will do me good⁠—it’s full of just what I want.” He gave Copplestone another look and then glanced at the letters which he held in his hand. “Are you going to the post office?” he asked. “May I come?⁠—I want to go there, too.”

The two young men walked out of the inn, and Copplestone led the way down the road towards the northern quay. And once they were well out of earshot of the Admiral’s Arms, and the two or three men who lounged near the wall in front of it, the curate turned to his companion with a sly look.

“Of course you’re Mr. Copplestone?” he remarked. “You can’t be anybody else⁠—besides, I heard the landlady call you so.”

“Yes,” replied Copplestone, distinctly puzzled by the other’s manner. “What then?”

The curate laughed quietly, and putting his fingers inside his heavy overcoat, produced a card which he handed over.

“My credentials!” he said.

Copplestone glanced at the card and read “Sir Cresswell Oliver.” He turned wonderingly to his companion, who laughed again.

“Sir Cresswell told me to give you that as soon as I conveniently could,” he said. “The fact is, I’m not a clergyman at all⁠—not I! I’m a private detective, sent down here by him and Petherton. See?”

Copplestone stared for a moment at the wide-brimmed hat, the round collar, the eminently clerical countenance. Then he burst into laughter. “I congratulate you on your makeup, anyway!” he exclaimed. “Capital!”

“Oh, I’ve been on the stage in my time,” responded the private detective. “I’m a good hand at fitting myself to various parts; besides I’ve played the conventional curate a score of times. Yes, I don’t think anybody would see through me, and I’m very particular to avoid the clergy.”

“And you left the stage⁠—for this?” asked Copplestone. “Why, now?”

“Pays better⁠—heaps better,” replied the other calmly. “Also, it’s more exciting⁠—there’s much more variety in it. Well, now you know who I am⁠—my name, by the by is Gilling, though I’m not the Reverend Gilling, as Mrs. Wooler will call me. And so⁠—as I’ve made things plain⁠—how’s this matter going so far?”

Copplestone shook his head.

“My orders,” he said, with a significant look, “are⁠—to say nothing to anyone.”

“Except to me,” responded Gilling. “Sir Cresswell Oliver’s card is my passport. You can tell me anything.”

“Tell me something first,” replied Copplestone. “Precisely what are you here for? If I’m to talk confidentially to you, you must talk in the same fashion to me.”

He stopped at a deserted stretch of the quay, and leaning against the wall which separated it from the sand, signed to Gilling to stop also.

“If we’re going to have a quiet talk,” he went on, “we’d better have it now⁠—no one’s about, and if anyone sees us from a distance they’ll only think we’re, what we look to be⁠—casual acquaintances. Now⁠—what is your job?”

Gilling looked about him and then perched himself on the wall.

“To watch Marston Greyle,” he replied.

“They suspect him?” asked Copplestone.

“Undoubtedly!”

“Sir Cresswell Oliver said as much to me⁠—but no more. Have they said more to you?”

“The suspicion seemed to have originated with Petherton. Petherton, in spite of his meek old-fashioned manners, is as sharp an old bird as you’ll find in London! He fastened at once on what Bassett Oliver said to that fisherman, Ewbank. A keen nose for a scent, Petherton’s! And he’s determined to find out who it was that Bassett Oliver met in the United States under the name of Marston Greyle. He’s already set the machinery in motion. And in the meantime, I’m to keep my eye on this Squire⁠—as I shall!”

“Why watch him particularly?”

“To see that he doesn’t depart for unknown regions⁠—or, if he does, to follow in his track. He’s not to be lost sight of until this mystery is cleared. Because⁠—something is wrong.”

Copplestone considered matters in silence for a few moments, and decided not to reveal the story of Zachary Spurge to