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

he knew that my brother would at once know that he, the impostor, was not the real Marston Greyle, and that the discovery would lead to detection. And therefore he put him out of the way. He might accompany him to the top of the tower and fling him down. It’s possible. Do you follow me?”

“Precisely,” replied Petherton. “I, too, incline to that notion, though I’ve worked it out in a different fashion. My reconstruction of what took place at Scarhaven Keep is as follows⁠—I think that Bassett Oliver met the Squire⁠—we’ll call this man that for the sake of clearness⁠—when he entered the ruins. He probably introduced himself and mentioned that he had met a Marston Greyle in America. Then the Squire saw the probabilities of detection⁠—and what subsequently took place was most likely what you suggest. It may have been that the Squire recognized Bassett Oliver, and knew that he’d met Marston Greyle; it may have been that he didn’t know him and didn’t know anything until Bassett Oliver enlightened him. But⁠—either way⁠—I firmly believe that Bassett Oliver came to his death by violence⁠—that he was murdered. So⁠—there’s the case in a nutshell! Murdered!⁠—to keep his tongue still.”

“What’s to be done, then?” asked Sir Cresswell as Petherton tapped the cablegram.

“The first thing,” he answered, “is to make use of this. We now know that the real Marston Greyle⁠—who certainly did live in St. Louis, where his father had settled⁠—left New York for England to take up his inheritance, on September 28th, 1912, and booked a passage to Falmouth. He would land at Falmouth from the Araconda about October 5th. Probably there is some trace of him at Falmouth. He no doubt stayed a night there. Anyway, somebody must go to Falmouth and make inquiries. You’d better go, Gilling, and at once. While you’re away your partner had better resume his search for the man we know as the Squire. You’ve two good clues⁠—the fact that he visited the Fragonard Club and that particular tobacconist’s shop. Urge Swallow to do his best⁠—the man must be kept in sight. See to both these things immediately.”

“Swallow is at work already,” replied Gilling. “He’s got good help, too, and his failure yesterday has put him on his mettle. As for me, I’ll go to Falmouth by the next express. Let me have that cablegram.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Copplestone. “I may be of some use⁠—and I’m interested. But,” he paused and looked questioningly at the old solicitor. “What about the other news we brought you?” he asked. “About this sale of the estate, you know? If this man is an impostor⁠—”

“Leave that to me,” replied Petherton, with a shrewd glance at Sir Cresswell. “I know the Greyle family solicitors⁠—highly respectable people⁠—only a few doors away, in fact⁠—and I’m going round to have a quiet little chat with them in a few minutes. There will be no sale! Leave me to deal with that matter⁠—and if you young men are going to Falmouth, off you go!”

It was late that night when Copplestone and Gilling arrived at this far-off Cornish seaport, and nothing could be done until the following morning. To Copplestone it seemed as if they were in for a difficult task. Over twelve months had elapsed since the real Marston Greyle left America for England; he might not have stayed in Falmouth, might not have held any conversation with anybody there who would recollect him! How were they going to trace him? But Gilling⁠—now free of his clerical attire and presenting himself as a smart young man of the professional classes type⁠—was quick to explain that system, accurate and definite system, would expedite matters.

“We know the approximate date on which the Araconda would touch here,” he said as they breakfasted together. “As things go, it would be from October 4th to 6th, according to the quickness of her run across the Atlantic. Very well⁠—if Marston Greyle stayed here, he’d have to stay at some hotel. Accordingly, we visit all the Falmouth hotels and examine their registers of that date⁠—first week of October, 1912. If we find his name⁠—good! We can then go on to make inquiries. If we don’t find any trace of him, then we know it’s all up⁠—he probably went straight away by train after landing. We’ll begin with this hotel first.”

There was no record of any Marston Greyle at that hotel, nor at the next half dozen at which they called. A visit to the shipping office of the line to which the Araconda belonged revealed the fact that she reached Falmouth on October 5th at half past ten in the evening, and that the name of Marston Greyle was on the list of first-class passengers. Gilling left the office in cheery mood.

“That simplifies matters,” he said. “As the Araconda reached here late in the evening, the passengers who landed from her would be almost certain to stay the night in Falmouth. So we’ve only to resume our round of these hotels in order to hit something pertinent. This is plain and easy work, Copplestone⁠—no corners in it. We’ll strike oil before noon.”

They struck oil at the very next hotel they called at⁠—an old-fashioned house in close proximity to the harbour. There was a communicative landlord there who evidently possessed and was proud of a retentive memory, and he no sooner heard the reason of Gilling’s call upon him than he bustled into activity, and produced the register of the previous year.

“But I remember the young gentleman you’re asking about,” he remarked, as he took the book from a safe and laid it open on the table in his private room. “Not a common name, is it? He came here about eleven o’clock of the night you’ve mentioned⁠—there you are!⁠—there’s the entry. And there⁠—higher up⁠—is the name of the man who came to meet him. He came the day before⁠—to be here when the Araconda got in.”

The two visitors, bending over the book, mutually nudged