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

“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 schoolhouse 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