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

each other as their eyes encountered the signatures on the open page. There, in the handwriting of the letters which Mr. Dennie had so fortunately preserved, was the name Marston Greyle. But it was not the sight of that which surprised them; they had expected to see it. What made them both thrill with the joy of an unexpected discovery was the sight of the signature inserted some lines above it, under date October 4th. Lest they should exhibit that joy before the landlord, they mutually stuck their elbows into each other and immediately affected the unconcern of indifference.

But there the signature was⁠—Peter Chatfield. Peter Chatfield!⁠—they both knew that they were entering on a new stage of their quest; that the fact that Chatfield had travelled to Falmouth to meet the new owner of Scarhaven meant much⁠—possibly meant everything.

“Oh!” said Gilling, as steadily as possible. “That gentleman came to meet the other, did he? Just so. Now what sort of man was he?”

“Big, fleshy man⁠—elderly⁠—very solemn in manner and appearance,” answered the landlord. “I remember him well. Came in about five o’clock in the afternoon of the 4th just after the London train arrived⁠—and booked a room. He told me he expected to meet a gentleman from New York, and was very fidgety about fixing it up to go off in the tender to the Araconda when she came into the Bay. However, I found out for him that she wouldn’t be in until next evening, so of course he settled down to wait. Very quiet, reserved old fellow⁠—never said much.”

“Did he go off on the tender next night?” asked Gilling.

“He did⁠—and came back with this other gentleman and his baggage⁠—this Mr. Greyle,” answered the landlord. “Mr. Chatfield had booked a room for Mr. Greyle.”

“And what sort of man was Mr. Greyle?” inquired Gilling. “That’s really the important thing. You’ve an exceptionally good memory⁠—I can see that. Tell us all you can recollect about him.”

“I can recollect plenty,” replied the landlord, shaking his head. “As for his looks⁠—a tallish, slightly-built young fellow, between, I should say, twenty-five and twenty-eight. Stooped a good bit. Very dark hair and eyes⁠—eyes a good deal sunken in his face. Very pale⁠—good-looking⁠—good features. But ill⁠—my sakes! He was ill!”

“Ill!” exclaimed Gilling, with a glance at Copplestone. “Really ill!”

“He was that ill,” said the landlord, “that me and my wife never expected to see him get up that next morning. We wanted them to have a doctor but Mr. Greyle himself said that it was nothing, but that he had some heart trouble and that the voyage had made it worse. He said that if he took some medicine which he had with him, and a drop of hot brandy and water, and got a good night’s sleep he’d be all right. And next morning he seemed better, and he got up to breakfast⁠—but my wife said to me that if she’d seen death on a man’s face it was on his! She’s a bit of a persuasive tongue, has my wife, and when she heard that these two gentlemen were thinking of going a long journey⁠—right away to the far north, it was, I believe⁠—she got ’em to go and see the doctor first, for she felt that Mr. Greyle wasn’t fit for the exertion.”

“Did they go?” asked Gilling.

“They did! I talked, myself, to the old gentleman,” replied the landlord. “And I showed them the way to our own doctor⁠—Dr. Tretheway. And as a result of what he said to them, I heard them decide to break up their journey into stages, as you might term it. They left here for Bristol that afternoon⁠—to stay the night there.”

“You’re sure of that?⁠—Bristol?” asked Gilling.

“Ought to be,” replied the landlord, with laconic assurance. “I went to the station with them and saw them off. They booked to Bristol⁠—anyway⁠—first class.”

Gilling looked at his companion.

“I think we’d better see this Dr. Tretheway,” he remarked.

Dr. Tretheway, an elderly man of grave manners and benevolent aspect, remembered the visit of Mr. Marston Greyle well enough when he had turned up its date in his case book. He also remembered the visitor’s companion, Mr. Chatfield, who seemed unusually anxious and concerned about Mr. Greyle’s health.

“And as to that,” continued Dr. Tretheway, “I learnt from Mr. Greyle that he had been seriously indisposed for some months before setting out for England. The voyage had been rather a rough one; he had suffered much from seasickness, and, in his state of health, that was unfortunate for him. I made a careful examination of him, and I came to the conclusion that he was suffering from a form of myocarditis which was rapidly assuming a very serious complexion. I earnestly advised him to take as much rest as possible, to avoid all unnecessary fatigue and all excitement, and I strongly deprecated his travelling in one journey to the north, whither I learnt he was bound. On my advice, he and Mr. Chatfield decided to break that journey at Bristol, at Birmingham, and at Leeds. By so doing, you see, they would only have a short journey each day, and Mr. Greyle would be able to rest for a long time at a stretch. But⁠—I formed my own conclusions.”

“And they were⁠—what?” asked Gilling.

“That he would not live long,” said the doctor. “Finding that he was going to the neighbourhood of Norcaster, where there is a most excellent school of medicine, I advised him to get the best specialist he could from there, and to put himself under his treatment. But my impression was that he had already reached a very, very serious stage.”

“You think he was then likely to die suddenly?” suggested Gilling.

“It was quite possible. I should not have been surprised to hear of his death,” answered Dr. Tretheway. “He was, in short, very ill indeed.”

“You never heard anything?” inquired Gilling.

“Nothing at all⁠—though I often wondered. Of course,” said the doctor with a smile, “they were only chance visitors⁠—I often have transatlantic passengers drop in⁠—and they forget that a physician would sometimes like to know how a case submitted to him in