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

know⁠—I married Valentine Greyle, and I knew Stephen John, and I saw plenty of both, and something of their father, too, and a little of Marcus before he emigrated. This man does not possess one single scrap of the Greyle temperament!”

Mr. Dennie put away his snuffbox and drumming on the table with his fingers looked out of his eye corners at Copplestone who still stood with his back to the rest, staring out of the window.

“And what,” said Mr. Dennie, softly, “what⁠—er, does our good friend Mr. Copplestone say?”

Copplestone turned swiftly, and gave Audrey a quick glance.

“I say,” he answered in a sharp, businesslike fashion, “that Gilling, who’s stopping at the inn, you know, is walking up and down outside here, evidently looking out for me, and very anxious to see me, and with your permission, Mrs. Greyle, I’d like to have him in. Now that things have got to this pitch, I’d better tell you something⁠—I don’t see any good in concealing it longer. Gilling isn’t an invalid curate at all!⁠—he’s a private detective. Sir Cresswell Oliver and Petherton, the solicitor, sent him down here to watch Greyle⁠—the Squire, you know⁠—that’s Gilling’s job. They suspect Greyle⁠—have suspected him from the very first⁠—but of what I don’t know. Not⁠—not of this, I think. Anyway, they do suspect him, and Gilling’s had his eye on him ever since he came here. And I’d like to fetch Gilling in here, and I’d like him to know all that Mr. Dennie’s told us. Because, don’t you see, Sir Cresswell and Petherton ought to know all that, immediately, and Gilling’s their man.”

Audrey’s brows had been gathering in lines of dismay and perplexity all the time Copplestone was talking, but her mother showed no signs of anything but complete composure, crowned 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 pseudocurate, 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 cipher 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