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

“Did they give you any address, either of them?” asked Copplestone, seeing that Gilling had no more to ask.

“No,” replied the doctor, “they did not. I knew of course, from what they told me that Mr. Greyle had come off the Araconda the night before, and that he was passing on. No⁠—I only gathered that they were going to the neighbourhood of Norcaster from the fact that Mr. Greyle asked if a journey to that place would be too much for him⁠—he said with a laugh, that over there in the United States a journey of five hundred miles would be considered a mere jaunt! He was very plucky, poor fellow, but⁠—”

Dr. Tretheway ended with a significant shake of the head, and his two visitors left him and went out into the autumn sunlight.

“Copplestone!” said Gilling as they walked away. “That chap⁠—the real Marston Greyle⁠—is dead! That’s as certain as that we’re alive! And now the next thing is to find out where he died and when. And by George, that’s going to be a big job!”

“How are you going to set about it?” asked Copplestone. “It seems as if we were up against a blank wall, now.”

“Not at all, my son!” retorted Gilling, cheerfully. “One step at a time⁠—that’s the sure thing to go on, in my calling. We’ve found out a lot here, and quickly, too. And⁠—we know where our next step lies. Bristol! Like looking for needles in a bundle of hay? Not a bit of it. If those two broke their journey at Bristol, they’d have to stop at an hotel. Well, now we’ll adjourn to Bristol⁠—bearing in mind that we’re on the track of Peter Chatfield!”

Gilling’s cheerful optimism was the sort of desirable quality that is a good thing to have, but all the optimism in the world is valueless in face of impregnable difficulty. And the difficulty of tracing Chatfield and his sick companion in a city the size of Bristol did indeed seem impregnable when Gilling and Copplestone had been attacking it for twenty-four hours. They had spent a whole day in endeavouring to get news; they had gone in and out of hotels until they were sick of the sight of one; they had made exhaustive inquiries at the railway station and of the cabmen who congregated there; nobody remembered anything at all about a big, heavy-faced man and a man in his company who seemed to be very ill. And on the second night Copplestone intimated plainly that in his opinion they were wasting their time.

“How do we even know that they ever came to Bristol?” he asked, as he and Gilling refreshed themselves with a much needed dinner. “The Falmouth landlord saw Chatfield take tickets for Bristol! That’s nothing to go on! Put it to yourself in this way. Greyle may have found even that journey too much for him. They may, in that case, have left the train at Plymouth⁠—or at Exeter⁠—or at Taunton: it would stop at each place. Seems to me we’re wasting time here⁠—far better get nearer more tangible things. Chatfield, for instance. Or, go back to town and find out what your friend Swallow has done.”

“Swallow,” replied Gilling, “has done nothing so far, or I should have heard. Swallow knows exactly where I am, and where I shall be until I give him further notice. Don’t be discouraged, my friend⁠—one is often on the very edge of a discovery when one seems to be miles away from it. Give me another day⁠—and if we haven’t found out something by tomorrow evening I’ll consult with you as to our next step. But I’ve a plan for tomorrow morning which ought to yield some result.”

“What?” demanded Copplestone, doubtfully.

“This! There is in every centre of population an official who registers births, marriages, and deaths. Now we believe the real Marston Greyle to be dead. Let us suppose, for argument’s sake, that he did die here, in Bristol, whither he and Chatfield certainly set off when they left Falmouth. What would happen? Notice of his death would have to be given to the Registrar⁠—by the nearest relative or by the person in attendance on the deceased. That person would, in this case, be Chatfield. If the death occurred suddenly, and without medical attendance, an inquest would have to be held. If a doctor had been in attendance he would give a signed certificate of the cause of death, which he would hand to the relatives or friends in attendance, who, in their turn, would have to hand it to the Registrar. Do you see the value of these points? What we must do tomorrow morning is to see the Registrar⁠—or, as there will be more than one in a place this size⁠—each of them in turn, in the endeavour to find out if, early in October, 1912, Peter Chatfield registered the death of Marston Greyle here. But remember⁠—he may not have registered it under that name. He may, indeed, not have used his own name⁠—he’s deep enough for anything. That however, is our next best chance⁠—search of the registers. Let’s try it, anyway, first thing in the morning. And as we’ve had a stiff day, I propose we dismiss all thought of this affair for the rest of the evening and betake ourselves to some place of amusement⁠—theatre, eh?”

Copplestone made no objection to that, and when dinner was over, they walked round to the principal theatre in time for the first act of a play which having been highly successful in London had just started on a round of the leading provincial theatres. Between the second and third acts of this production there was a long interval, and the two companions repaired to the foyer to recuperate their energies with a drink and a cigarette. While thus engaged, Copplestone encountered an old school friend with whom he exchanged a few words: Gilling,