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

came, and had of course, no difficulty about giving the necessary certificate. Just as plain was the undertaker’s account of his connection with the affair⁠—a very ordinary transaction in his eyes. And having heard both stories, there was nothing to do but to visit one of the adjacent cemeteries and find a certain grave the number of which they had ascertained from the undertaker’s books. It was easily found⁠—and Copplestone and Gilling found themselves standing at a new tombstone, whereon the monumental mason had carved four lines:

Mark Grey

Born April 12th, 1884.

Died October 6th, 1912.

Aged 28 Years.

“Short, simple, eminently suited to the purpose,” murmured Gilling as the two turned away. “Somebody thought things out quickly and well, Copplestone, when this poor fellow died. Do you know I’ve been thinking as we walked up here that if Bassett Oliver had never taken it into his head to visit Scarhaven that Sunday this fraud would never have been found out! The chances were all against its ever being found out. Consider them! A young man who is an absolute stranger in England comes to take up an inheritance, having on him no doubt, the necessary proofs of identification. He’s met by one person only⁠—his agent. He dies next day. The agent buries him, under a false name, takes his effects and papers, gets some accomplice to personate him, introduces that accomplice to everybody as the real man⁠—and there you are! Oh, Chatfield knew what he was doing! Who on earth, wandering in this cemetery, would ever connect Mark Grey with Marston Greyle?”

“Just so⁠—but there was one danger-spot which must have given Chatfield and his accomplices a good many uneasy hours,” answered Copplestone. “You know that Marston Greyle actually registered in his own name at Falmouth and was known to the land lord and the doctor there.”

“Yes⁠—and Falmouth is three hundred miles from London and five hundred from Scarhaven,” replied Gilling dryly. “And do you suppose that whoever saw Marston Greyle at Falmouth cared two pins⁠—comparatively⁠—what became of him after he left there? No⁠—Chatfield was almost safe from detection as soon as he’d got that unfortunate young fellow laid away in that grave. However we know now⁠—what we do know. And the next thing, now that we know Marston Greyle lies behind us there, is to get back to town and catch the chap who took his place. We’ll wire to Swallow and to Petherton and get the next express.”

Sir Cresswell Oliver and Petherton were in conference with Swallow at the solicitor’s office when Gilling and Copplestone arrived there in the early afternoon. Gilling interrupted their conversation to tell the result of his investigations. Copplestone, watching the effect, saw that neither Sir Cresswell nor Petherton showed surprise. Petherton indeed, smiled as if he had anticipated all that Gilling had to say.

“I told you that I knew the Greyle family solicitors,” he observed. “I find that they have only once seen the man whom we will call the Squire. Chatfield brought him there. He produced proofs of identification⁠—papers which Chatfield no doubt took from the dead man. Of course, the solicitors never doubted for a moment that he was the real Marston Greyle!⁠—never dreamed of fraud. Well⁠—the next step. We must concentrate on finding this man. And Swallow has nothing to tell⁠—yet. He has never seen anything more of him. You’d better turn all your attention to that, Gilling⁠—you and Swallow. As for Chatfield and his daughter, I suppose we shall have to approach the police.”

Copplestone presently went home to his rooms in Jermyn Street, puzzled and wondering. And there, lying on top of a pile of letters, he found a telegram⁠—from Audrey Greyle. It had been dispatched from Scarhaven at an early hour of the previous day, and it contained but three words⁠—Can you come?

XIX The Steam Yacht

Copplestone had seen and learned enough of Audrey Greyle during his brief stay at Scarhaven to make him assured that she would not have sent for him save for very good and grave reasons. It had been with manifest reluctance that she had given him her promise to do so: her entire behaviour during the conference with Mr. Dennie and Gilling had convinced him that she had an inherent distaste for publicity and an instinctive repugnance to calling in the aid of strangers. He had never expected that she would send for him⁠—he himself knew that he should go back to her, but the return would be on his own initiative. There, however, was her summons, definite as it was brief. He was wanted⁠—and by her. And without opening one of his letters, he snatched up the whole pile, thrust it into his pocket, hurriedly made some preparation for his journey and raced off to King’s Cross.

He fumed and fretted with impatience during the six hours’ journey down to Norcaster. It was ten o’clock when he arrived there, and as he knew that the last train to Scarhaven left at half past nine he hurried to get a fast motorcar that would take him over the last twenty miles of his journey. He had wired to Audrey from Peterborough, telling her that he was on his way and should motor out from Norcaster, and when he had found a car to his liking he ordered its driver to go straight to Mrs. Greyle’s cottage, close by Scarhaven church. And just then he heard a voice calling his name, and turning saw, running out of the station, a young, athletic-looking man, much wrapped and cloaked, who waved a hand at him and whose face he had some dim notion of having seen before.

“Mr. Copplestone?” panted the new arrival, coming up hurriedly. “I almost missed you⁠—I got on the wrong platform to meet your train. You don’t know me, though you may have seen me at the inquest on Mr. Bassett Oliver the other day⁠—my name’s Vickers⁠—Guy Vickers.”

“Yes?” said Copplestone. “And⁠—”

“I’m a solicitor, here in Norcaster,” answered Vickers. “I⁠—at least, my firm, you know⁠—we sometimes act for