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

at that very moment, Miss Addie, who had been rehearsing, and had come out by the house instead of going through the stage door, came tripping into the vestibule and let off a sharp note of exclamation. After which she and old wooden-face stepped into the street together, and immediately exchanged a few words. And that the old man told her something very serious was abundantly evident from the expression of their respective countenances. But, of course, I never knew what it was, nor who he was, dear boy⁠—not my business, don’t you know.”

“They went away together, those two?” asked Gilling, favouring Copplestone with another nudge.

“Up the street together, certainly, talking most earnestly,” replied Mr. Montmorency.

“Ever see that old chap again?” asked Gilling.

“I never did, dear boy⁠—once was sufficient,” said Mr. Montmorency, lightly. “But,” he continued, dropping his bantering tone, “are these questions pertinent?⁠—has this to do with this new profession of yours, dear boy? If so⁠—mum’s the word, you know.”

“I’ll tell you what, Monty,” answered Gilling. “I wish you’d find out for me where Addie Chatfield lodged when she was here that time. Can it be done? Between you and me, I do want to know about that, old chap. Never mind why, now⁠—I will tell you later. But it’s serious.”

Mr. Montmorency tapped the side of his handsome nose.

“All right, my boy!” he said. “I understand⁠—wicked, wicked world! Done? Dear boy, it shall be done! Come down to the stage door⁠—our man knows every landlady in the town!”

By various winding ways and devious passages he led the two young men down to the stage door. Its keeper, not being particularly busy at that time, was reading the evening newspaper in his glass-walled box, and glanced inquiringly at the strangers as Mr. Montmorency pulled them up before him.

“Prickett,” said Mr. Montmorency, leaning into the sanctum over its half door and speaking confidentially. “You keep a sort of register of lodgings don’t you, Prickett? Now I wonder if you could tell me where Miss Adela Chatfield, of the Mrs. Swayne’s Necklace Company stopped when she was last here?⁠—that’s a year ago or about it. Prickett,” he went on, turning to Gilling, “puts all this sort of thing down, methodically, so that he can send callers on, or send up urgent letters or parcels during the day⁠—isn’t that it, Prickett?”

“That’s about it, sir,” answered the doorkeeper. He had taken down a sort of ledger as the manager spoke, and was now turning over its leaves. He suddenly ran his finger down a page and stopped its course at a particular line.

“Mrs. Salmon, 5, Montargis Crescent⁠—second to the right outside,” he announced briefly. “Very good lodgings, too, are those.”

Gilling promised Mr. Montmorency that he would look him up later on, and went away with Copplestone to Montargis Crescent. Within five minutes they were standing in a comfortably furnished, old-fashioned sitting room, liberally ornamented with the photographs of actors and actresses and confronting a stout, sharp-eyed little woman who listened intently to all that Gilling said and sniffed loudly when he had finished.

“Remember Miss Chatfield being here!” she exclaimed. “I should think I do remember! I ought to! Bringing mortal sickness into my house⁠—and then death⁠—and then a funeral⁠—and her and her father going away never giving me an extra penny for the trouble!”

XVIII The Lie on the Tombstone

Gilling’s glance at his companion was quiet enough, but it spoke volumes. Here, by sheer chance, was such a revelation as they had never dreamed of hearing!⁠—here was the probable explanation of at least half the mystery. He turned composedly to the landlady.

“I’ve already told you who and what I am,” he said, pointing to the card which he had handed to her. “There are certain mysterious circumstances about this affair which I want to get at. What you’ve said just now is abundant evidence that you can help. If you do and will help, you’ll be well paid for your trouble. Now, you speak of sickness⁠—death⁠—a funeral. Will you tell us all about it?”

“I never knew there was any mystery about it,” answered the landlady, as she motioned her visitors to seat themselves. “It was all aboveboard as far as I knew. Of course, I’ve always been sore about it⁠—I’d a great deal of trouble, and as I say, I never got anything for it⁠—that is, anything extra. And me doing it really to oblige her and her father!”

“They brought a sick man here?” suggested Gilling.

“I’ll tell you how it was,” said Mrs. Salmon, seating herself and showing signs of a disposition to confidence. “Miss Chatfield, she’d been here, I think, three days that time⁠—I’d had her once before a year or two previous. One morning⁠—I’m sure it was about the third day that the Swayne Necklace Company was here⁠—she came in from rehearsal in a regular take-on. She said that her father had just called on her at the theatre. She said he’d been to Falmouth to meet a relation of theirs who’d come from America and had found him to be very ill on landing⁠—so ill that a Falmouth doctor had given strict orders that he mustn’t travel any further than Bristol, on his way wherever he wanted to go. They’d got to Bristol and the young man was so done up that Mr. Chatfield had had to drive him to another doctor⁠—one close by here⁠—Dr. Valdey⁠—as soon as they arrived. Dr. Valdey said he must go to bed at once and have at least two days’ complete rest in bed, and he advised Mr. Chatfield to get quiet rooms instead of going to a hotel. So Mr. Chatfield, knowing that his daughter was here, do you see, sought her out and told her all about it. She came to me and asked me if I knew where they could get rooms. Well now, I had my drawing room floor empty that week, and as it was only for two or three days that they wanted rooms I offered to take Mr. Chatfield and the young man in. Of course,