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

a heavy man⁠—some fourteen or fifteen stone, I should think. Oh, instantaneous death, without a doubt! Well, well, these constables must see to the removal of the body, and we must let my friend the coroner know⁠—he will hold the inquest tomorrow, no doubt. Quite a mere formality, 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 pseudocurate 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 surefooted 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.

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